


El Norte

by Anaands



Series: New China [4]
Category: The Last Ship (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Season 5 AU, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-12 02:47:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 65,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29627925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaands/pseuds/Anaands
Summary: The US faces its biggest threat since the famine as the Gran Columbian Empire rises to power. The crew of the Nathan James must fight to protect their country against the threat of invasion, while Chandler finds himself targeted by their leader Tavo. An alternate version of Season 5, part of the New China verse. Tomsha centric.
Relationships: Andrea Garnett/Mike Slattery, Kara Foster/Danny Green, Tom Chandler/Sasha Cooper
Series: New China [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2173398





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the fourth installment in my New China universe. Though it can be read as a standalone, you'll be missing a fair bit of background without first reading those. This is an AU version of events, loosely based around the major points of what we saw with several important changes. I hope it's not too difficult to follow and removes some of my (and others) hate for what happened on screen. Probably the most important thing to note; there's no Battleship in my world. I can't get around the plot holes of it going missing, and no one noticed when there are only four left in the US. Also, it was stupid, so. Tom will not be chasing an imaginary battleship in my universe!

**December 9** **th** **, 2018—Panama City, Panama**

Sasha's feet rested against the railing of the balcony. A commotion of noise drew her attention to the pool below, reflexes ever sharp and on edge to respond at a moment's notice. Just a couple of rowdy kids trying to whip each other with wet pool towels. She relaxed, back slouching somewhat in the flimsy patio chair. The computer in her lap chimed, an e-mail. She opened it instantly, scanning its contents thoroughly. A satisfied smirk tugged at her lips, and she fired back confirmation of their orders over the secure network. CIC had finally approved Vulture Team to approach _El Presidente_ , and now, they had a mission to plan. Picking up the burner, she typed out a quick text, thumbs clicking deftly on the tactile buttons of the old Nokia phone.

_Meet for drinks?_

_When and where?_

_Green Room at 6?_

_See u there._

Her eyes briefly flickered to the time, seeing she had a few minutes of privacy left until the rest of the team arrived. She closed the laptop and stepped inside to grab her sat phone. Rested her hand on her hip while she waited for an answer.

" _Hello?"_ came a wary voice.

"Ash, it's me," Sasha announced, and she could practically hear the stress melt away on the other line.

" _Oh, hey Sasha—you got my e-mail then?"_ it sounded like she'd stepped into a different room, the pronounced sound of a door closing reaching her ears.

"I did. What's going on?" she asked, a current of concern underlying her approach. Her hands busied themselves by setting out blueprints upon the small desk. A weighty sigh on the other side before Ashely answered.

" _It's Sam. He wants to live in St. Louis with me."_

Sasha exhaled, pinched the bridge of her nose in irritation because this was the last thing any of them needed right now. "That's uh… why?" she landed upon, a little agitated, her blueprints now overlooked. She knew things weren't ideal, not by a long shot. Not since the fight, but they'd been improving, communication helping to lessen the damage of undisclosed resentments between Tom and his kids.

" _He hates that school. Everyone in Norfolk is obsessed with Dad, you know that. It's all they ever talk about. He said some of the new kids aren't great—the ones who moved there because of the base? Last week he got in a fight because one of them said something about us…"_

"What do you mean? What did they say?"

There was a hesitation before Ashely spoke. _"They asked him what it's like to know your Dad picked a mission over his family."_

Sasha hung her head, eyes closing as she deflated. A nervous hand ran through her hair, an agitated motion, an attempt to dispel the uncomfortable emotions attached to that particular moment. Her mouth hung open as she struggled to respond. "That's not even close to being true… why would they say that?" in a whispered tone.

" _I guess one of his parents served on Hayward. It's kind of common knowledge that Dad ignored the order to come home."_ Ashely deadpanned, tone regretful.

"What the hell is wrong with people?" Sasha breathed suddenly, instantly cringing at the despair laced in her tone and reeling it back in. Getting emotional wouldn't help, and she had less than five minutes for this call. "Does Tom know?"

" _No. That's why I wanted to talk to you first. Sam said he's not doing so great, and he doesn't want him to think it's his fault. And I don't either because it's not. That kid's an asshole, but you know he'll blame himself. I don't know what to do."_

A spasm of guilt radiated in Sasha's heart. The knowledge that a considerable part of Tom's weariness this time belonged exclusively to her, not lost. A profound yearning had been growing within since leaving for Panama. A wish for a simpler life, one not constantly lambasted by their commitment to duty and the greater good. For once, she wanted to be selfish, to be able to walk away instead of answering the call every time it came. A crease formed in the center of her brow, eyes round and sad as she shook her head softly.

"Can you guys do me a favor?" Sasha breathed.

" _What?"_

"Can you wait until I get home?" She didn't bother hiding the fatigue in her voice, nor the cautious optimism that they might. "I should be back in a few weeks, maybe even before Christmas, and we can talk about it. Together?"

Ashley sighed audibly, _"I figured you'd say that."_

Sasha drew her bottom lip between her teeth before concluding that honesty was the best policy if she wanted them to heed her request. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't serious, Ash." she hesitated before adding quietly. "He's not in a good place right now. He's hurting."

" _I know, but Sam's been talking about this for a while. I think he's really serious this time."_ Ashely warned.

Sasha winced, "I get it. I'm not saying convince him to stay—just, ask him to wait. Just a few more weeks until I'm home. Things are moving here, I should be done soon." There was a pregnant pause, and she imagined Ashely's sullen expression as she mulled it over. The sound of the keycard beeping alerted her to the team's arrival, and she straightened, drawing her expression back to neutral. "Listen, Ash—I have to go, but please think about what I said. I can call you again in a few hours—"

" _No, it's okay. I'll get him to hold off."_

Some of the tension left Sasha's body, and the relief was palatable as she spoke. "Thank you, I'll make it up to you guys, I promise. And get me that kid's name." She glanced at Danny as he passed. Their chatter mulled, allowing her to finish her call in relative silence as they made themselves busy with gear.

" _I'll send it to you. Be safe Sasha, bye."_

"Bye."

Danny's brow quirked slightly as he observed; Cooper had a good poker face most of the time, but now they were close, and he could tell something was off. Joining the group, her eyes settled on him for a moment.

"All good?" he asked quietly as he checked the chamber of his Beretta.

"Yeah, everything's fine," she replied, tone a little too bright to be truthful. He wasn't buying it, that much she could tell, but they had bigger things to focus on. Deflecting quickly, she addressed the room. "We're in business, POTUS approved the opp. We're good to make contact with Asturias."

"About fucking time," Wolf drawled, drawing a few chuckles.

"No shit." Danny grumbled.

"The party is our best insertion point. I say we point out his security flaws then offer our help. He's never going to believe he's in danger unless we prove how easily they can get to him." She suggested, glancing at her counterparts.

"Shouldn't be too hard to slip past security. You'll need tickets, though," Danny added, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sasha grinned. "Already on it. I set up a meet with my contact tonight—he should be able to get us in. Gives us a few days for planning and a chance to get eyes on Martinez."

Danny tipped his head and smirked back. Just like her to be two steps ahead, putting the chess pieces in motion even without the official green light. "Shit, we might even make it home for Christmas." He said.

A spark of joy that she didn't see often enough caught his eyes. Her brow rose, a cautious yet hopeful expression gracing her features. "We do this right; we might be home by the end of next week." Sasha told him. Home was a large subject as of late. They'd talked about this a few times at length—hours spent passing the time at night while they scoped the palace from rooftops. Time spent coming to terms that their heydays were over. It was time to move on from the missions, time to come home, preferably while there was still a home left to come to.

Kara and Danny appeared to be doing better, much to Sasha's relief. He'd put in the work, realized before it was too late what he stood to lose, and Kara had been patient. Incredibly so, in giving him the time to find himself again. He'd never been so profoundly aware of how lucky he was.

On Sasha's part, seeing both friends struggle so hard to save their family weighed heavily, the parallels not so different from her own. Their issues were different, of course, but the corrosive effects were no less damaging. Simply put, she needed to choose for all their sakes—Sam and Ashley included, for it was becoming clearer every day that she was killing him slowly every time she left.

* * *

Later that evening she stepped out, closing herself off on the balcony while the rest of the team watched horrific novellas on the shitty little TV that served as their entertainment. The weather was pleasant, even in December, a temperate light breeze rustling the canopies of palms beneath her.

" _We won the game, 38-32,"_ came his expectant answer, and just like that warmth spread through her heart. The sound of his voice rendering her entirely tender, because right now, at this precise moment, she had never been so ready to be done. Though she didn't want to tell him that, not over the phone. She wanted to do it in person; she wanted to see his reaction when she told him she was taking his name. No more undercover work, no more missions, no more assignments **—** just her. Sasha. Sasha Chandler.

"Well then, happy birthday," she said, grinning softly.

He replied easily, _"Almost. There is one thing that's missing,"_ his tone was light, thankfully, and she played along. An unspoken agreement that they wouldn't talk too seriously about anything unless it was an emergency, though they both knew what he meant.

"Hmm, cigars?" she teased readily, and he chuckled softly on the other end.

" _I think Mike's gonna solve that later,"_

A wistful look pulled at her features and she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the railing. Tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear so she could pick and the threads of her shirt absently with her fingers. "When are you heading out?" she asked.

Imagined it as he checked his watch for the time, _"Soon actually, Dinner's at eight."_

"Well, I won't keep you then. I just wanted to say hi, and happy birthday. I'm sorry I didn't call earlier—today's been busy."

" _How is it?"_ he asked.

"Hot. Getting hotter," and just like that she felt the shift, felt the easy banter make way instead for the weight of the unsaid. The ache of things beyond their control. Sasha sighed, closing her eyes as she inhaled. "You'll say hi to everyone for me?" she deflected, moving into safer territory.

" _Of course,"_ he answered as if it were even a question.

"Alright, I'll call you when I can then. Have fun tonight, I love you,"

Tom sighed, something was off with her, had been for this entire mission, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Didn't want to bring it up for fear of distracting. He needed her focused. Focused was the only way to come home alive. He swallowed, eyes narrowing slightly against the burn of everything he so desperately wanted to ask. "Be safe," he told her before he heard the dial tone.

* * *

**December 12** **th** **, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Russell Jeter turned and stood to attention as the CNO arrived, honored as ever to serve under his command. It was nice having the crew back together for Fleet Week. There were the familiar faces, of course, those he saw on occasion at relevant functions, others when they made port in Norfolk, but for others, like Mejia who'd left the service after returning from Greece, it was like a homecoming of sorts. Tom had flown in the prior weekend, finding himself enjoying being together with them again. There'd been a dinner on Sunday night in celebration of his Birthday. An evening where he'd perhaps drunk a little too much and smoked several cigars with Mike as they reminisced long into the night of times past. Old memories, times on the ship in the early days, times from before, and times after. His counterpart even moving so far as to talk about Andrea and how he had come to accept that his family was gone.

Tom had listened with rapt attention, thoughts drawn as ever to his own. And whether it was the vulnerability of his friend, the alcohol, or perhaps sentiment creeping in just as surely as he felt his age, he'd felt the need to confess. To ask whether he was being fair in wanting her to stop, mostly because he didn't want to worry about her 24/7 anymore. If it was fair to place so much of his happiness upon her shoulders, if perhaps it was codependency manifesting itself. After all, he'd left Darien for most of their marriage, and he'd survived. Why was she so special that he felt like he couldn't breathe when she was gone?

"Russ," Tom greeted with a head nod as he came to join him at the console. He'd been down at the docks, playing his part, smiling, and shaking hands when he'd been summoned back to command. And judging by the solemn mood, it wasn't good news. His eyes traveled, briefly meeting his Vice CNO Meylan's, who offered a subtle though serious nod in acknowledgment, and suddenly, he knew. Felt almost compelled to order them to spit it out because the one thing he couldn't do was wait.

"What is it?" he asked, his face and tone betraying the bitter and ruthless terror that was presently devouring his system.

Jeter glanced once at Joe, picking up a remote and switching the conference glass frosted before answering. "Sir, the team in Panama has been compromised." Another switch and Tom's eyes moved to the screen on the wall. Right there, Sasha and Green stood, front and center, Wolf and Azima partially obscured but still pictured, and the words _"America assassinates Panamanian President, manhunt in progress,"_ scrolled by. Fear gripped, coiling in the pit of his gut.

"When did they last make contact?" calm, though the storm was already steadily beginning to cloud his eyes.

"Satellite communications just went down, we're rebooting the system—but as of five minutes ago, we lost all coms, and all major weapons and defense systems connected to the network." Meylan responded. Tom's eyes squinted in reaction, his mind moving rapid-fire, an age-old stance drilled into him over years of experience propelling itself to the forefront.

_There's coincidence, and there's conspiracy._

His head jerked up. "Lock it down. No one in, no one out—get word to the fleet however you have to. I want all civilians off that port, we're under attack. I need to make sure POTUS is secure." He commanded, already on his way to the door. There was a flurry of motion as Jeter and Meylan responded to complete their given tasks, Russ following no more than two steps behind as they both ran to the communications room.

Just paces from reaching their destination, a gunshot rang out, followed by the screams of personal as they scattered in search of cover. Tom and Russ reflexively ducked, each diving behind two adjacent consoles in the main room as round after round rang out. He looked wildly around, taking stock of the situation. In the flurry of bodies and bullets, he couldn't yet locate the shooter, but he could see no less than five personnel on the ground already. Noted grimly that the doors were locked, remaining so even as various people attempted to open them with keycards. Some even forgetting in their panic as they threw chairs that there was no way to break the glass—it was bulletproof for a reason.

Russ made eye contact with Tom; the same focus reflected in his eyes as they attempted to locate a means to get the situation under control. Mentally, Tom knew the closest weapon was locked via safe in the communications room. Regretfully, he could now see that the shooter, whom to his dismay wore the United States Navy Uniform, was in possession of said gun. And the additional magazines Tom knew to be stored alongside in the safe. That meant their attacker still had fifty rounds left before he was out, more than enough to massacre most of the room.

The only way to subdue him would be to physically restrain and obtain the gun. Tom saw the moment Russ came to the same conclusion, a small head nod in his direction, letting him know they agreed. Tom gestured with his hands where they would move next. A console directly behind the Ensign's position, close enough for them to have one shot at taking him down. Russ nodded once more in confirmation, and Tom held up three fingers. A silent countdown as the chaos ensued around them. By now, their armed response security were attempting helplessly to break through the doors, all number of tools being shoved into the metal in a desperate attempt to manually pry them apart.

_Three, two, one._

They burst forth from their positions, jumping over bodies before skidding into the console, thankfully unnoticed in the unrest. It was then that Tom saw through the open door, the pool of blood that was slowly seeping out and the dark-skinned hand of what could only be Alisha Granderson on the floor. His heart thudded, and he forced himself to tear his eyes away. To focus instead on restraining their assailant. Tom saw his chance and sprung forward, using his entire body to barrel into the Ensign, enough force to knock the gun from his hands and send them both crashing to the ground in a flurry of fists. Jeter deftly picked up the weapon, aiming it directly against La Paz's temple.

"Enough!" he commanded, and the Ensign finally gave up, stilling his frantic movements. Tom's knee pressed against the Ensign's chest, his hands fisted in the shirt of his uniform, the rage so complete that it caused them to tremble.

"Who are you!?" he growled with fury. The Ensign laughed, face becoming red with the restricted flow of air to his lungs thanks to Tom's weight. He seemed to make an unusual gesture with his mouth, as if his tongue were digging for something, and Tom recognized a little too late what was going on. Forced his jaw open too late to stop the Ensign from cracking the cyanide pill that must have been stored in a tooth as he continued to taunt them with laughter.

"Who!? Who do you work for!?" Tom demanded again, desperately watching as red, bloody saliva began to froth and gurgle from his mouth. Only then did his lips move, an evil and soulless stare into Tom's frantic eyes as he struggled out.

"Viva… Tavo," before succumbing to the poison.

Tom's breathing was labored, the room now filled with deafening silence, and the sounds of quiet tears and hushed tones of "You're gonna be alright," and "Keep breathing," as their comrades attempted to save lives. He released his grip, chest heaving as he looked up at Jeter, who still held the gun, though lowered in a more relaxed stance. They stared at each other for a fraction of a moment before sense spurred him into action again, and he moved into the room to complete his mission of connecting with the fleet and White House. Knowing as he went in that he was about to stride over Alisha's body. There had been too much blood for her to survive.

Russ hadn't seen and he skidded to a horrified stop as soon as he saw her dead, lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. La Paz had shot her point blank, straight through the forehead, and he could not suppress the harsh gasp that drove itself from the depths of his chest in reaction.

The white dress shoes of Tom's uniform slipped slightly in the slick blood, and he shot out a hand to steady himself on the console. Flicking switches to move to the analog broadcast channel before ripping the handset free.

" _Attention fleet, this is your CNO, command is under attack. I say again, command is under attack! All satellite systems are down, including weapons and radar. Man your battle stations!"_

Kara frowned from the bridge of the James, her heart, which had been soaring as they cruised the harbor not minutes before, sinking into the depths of her body when she heard his voice penetrate the bridge over the comms systems. Her mouth ran dry while an intense chill caused shivers to run down her spine. Her gut rolled in apprehension, and the mood on the bridge plunged into a suspense so thick, you could hear a pin drop.

She wet her lips, springing into action.

"Get these civilians out of here. I want eyes at every watch station—OOD get us within CWIS range of the port but _do not_ put us in harm's way. Master Chief set general quarters, I want all gunners on deck, and ready the five-inch, NOW!" she commanded, picking up the phone to relay her instructions to CIC.

* * *

Mike pursed his lips and checked his watch again, fiddled with his belt buckle as he cursed the press for what felt like the hundredth time this week. He was tired. _Yes_ , it was great to celebrate the commissioning of their new fleet—but the number of interviews was becoming tiresome. He was pissed at Tom for assigning the bulk of them to him. Payback, no doubt, for that ceremony he'd missed.

"I'm so sorry, we're still having issues with the satellite," the reporter apologized for what felt like the tenth time. He inclined his head and grinned, which could have been more of a grimace in an attempt to remain polite. Strawberry blonde hair caught his attention, and involuntarily he felt his expression open up, wanting to break into a smile as it did every time, he saw her. In front of the crew and press, that would not be appropriate. No matter, though, as the apprehension he saw upon her features killed his momentary happiness. Filled him with dread instead, and he found he didn't have to work to stop that smile after all.

She stepped forward into his personal space so she could speak directly into his ear without being overheard. "Sir, command is under attack—all satellite-based systems are down, including weapons and radar. CNO's ordered an evacuation and all gunners to battle stations." She whispered urgently. The shock registered on his face briefly before he got it under control and nodded his understanding. He stepped forward, finding the stage instead and leaping deftly onto it. The performers stalled, confused by the interruption, and he snatched the microphone.

"Can I have your attention, please?" He bellowed, waiting a few moments as the crowd turned their gaze to his location, and the milling subdued somewhat. "I need everyone to remain calm. There is no need to panic," he continued quickly, already sensing the crowd about to descend into chaos, "We're experiencing a temporary systems failure, and for your safety as well as the fleets, I need all civilians to evacuate port." He spied Burk through the crowd and gestured to him to raise his hand, which he did. "My good friend over there," Mike pointed in his direction, "Will guide you, along with our other Lieutenants," he watched as Burk sprang into action, quickly guiding people to follow him, and the crowd lingered. "Please, remain calm. You are in great hands; this is just a precaution. Everyone else, report to your ships and man your stations."

He hopped down, intending to assist Burk in ensuring the civilians evacuated, cutting the news crew off sharply with a firm glare, "That means you too—I need you off this deck, now." His tone left no room for argument, and thankfully, they started packing up.

In hindsight, if they'd had just a little more warning, maybe even five minutes more, they might have been spared. But such was the nature of life, as cruel and ironic as it was. For at that precise moment, Mike heard the unmistakable drone of engines on the horizon. Didn't need to turn to know what he was about to witness. The sound of a CWIS somewhere just off the coast—the James, he recognized, fired off into the sky, and the murmur of the crowd turned into screams of terror.


	2. Chapter 2

**One Hour Post Attack—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

There was chaos, and there was this. Tom's eyes drifted amidst the hum of movement, not missing the twenty or so bodies that were covered with black bags still strewn where they'd been slaughtered. Members of their senior leadership included. To his left, Don Kinkaid's corpse still lay over a console. The blood pooling in a way that they'd probably never get clean, irreversibly oozing into the cracks. Anita was hit, but alive, barely, which left him once again, the highest-ranking member of the entire military. His mission, evident. A mission that did not immediately include him sequestering a plane and a team of Marines to storm Panama until he recovered his wife. The immediate details were accounted for; POTUS was secure in the presidential bunker in St. Louis.

They'd managed to get control of their security systems again, a hard reset and factory wipe having ousted the malicious code that temporarily locked them out. Not before storing it for analysis, of course—though with Alisha dead, there was presently no specialist he trusted enough to do it.

Reports on the ground revealed the USS Javier Cruz was sinking to the bottom of the bay, the Michener and O'Connor badly damaged but afloat, and The James unaccounted for. Hundreds of fatalities, civilian and service members alike, and the recognition that they'd been infiltrated from within. That command was no longer secure. There was only one place he could trust, one crew, one loyal group of people. And they were currently scattered in the wind with no means of communication.

The radio drew his attention, Spanish switching to English, and he moved to turn it up, Meylan and Jeter both raising their heads from the console as they listened.

" _I will now speak directly to our enemies; in a language they can understand. American's you are on notice. The people of Central and South America are united. We will no longer cower in fear of your big stick, for you do not offer us protection, but enslavement. Today marks the beginning of a new equilibrium. Gran Columbia will no longer sit at the children's table of international politics. It is our turn! Be warned, if the United States wants a fight, you will lose. For in the words of_ _Simón Bolívar_ _, a people who love their freedom, will in the end, be free. And we are united as a continent to fight for that freedom. We are one nation under God. La Gran Columbia. El Norte, El Norte, El Norte!"_

The sound of clapping and chants of "Viva Tavo" permeated; sour, bitter hatred pierced through his core, and he turned the comms off. The same ire manifested when he twisted to glare at Meylan and Jeter stiffly.

"We have no way of knowing how deep this goes," Tom stated, his voice was steel laced with death. His hands that had been resting loosely at his sides came up, one arm meeting the other in the middle of his waist, where he began to spin his wedding band. The personnel file of Ensign Octavio de La Paz lay open on the table. Its short contents picked over no less than a dozen times in the past thirty minutes. Beside it, a map of the Panamanian bay and Columbian shores. Tom's eyes drifted to it as he looked at the enlistment photo again. Stared at the face of the man who'd just murdered over twenty of their people and taken down every one of their satellite-based systems.

"We need to assume that all levels of command are compromised. I need eyes on the Battlefield. Our next move needs to be offensive, and I can't do that from here."

"You're gonna go find the James," Meylan interrupted, his eyebrows lifting marginally at the fearlessness of it. However, he was not entirely certain at this stage why that should confound him much. For a moment, he'd almost forgotten this was Tom Chandler he was speaking to.

Tom blinked once, tilting his head to the side somewhat, his way of a shrug. "Diaz said she was still afloat when he dropped those civilians off. You heard the report. Mike went with them, along with our best operators. Standard response has them sortied while they await further orders, and that's if Mike hasn't already started heading South. All I need's a Helo to find em." Tone dry and steadfast.

"I should be able to muster an analog one from Pensacola, Sir," Russ confirmed, nodding at his commander.

"Get it done," Tom answered with a curt nod, his head snapping responsively to face him. "Right now, you are the only ranking members of command that I trust. All communications go through you, closed-door, and you alone. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Sir." They both acknowledged in unison. Tom let his hands fall, drawing them away from fiddling with his ring. He glanced down once more at the picture before shifting his gaze to meet Meylan's.

"Tell POTUS I'm at EMCON until I can be sure we're secure. I want every base, every service member ready to deploy. If it floats, flies, or rolls it fights. Use the landlines, it's all we've got. I'll send further instructions once I reach the James. For now, I want every piece of intel we have on Central and South America, centers of gravity, troop levels, all of it." He ordered, turning to leave the room. He halted before he departed, eyebrows lifting as if he'd simply neglected to discuss something as mundane as the weather. "Oh, and you'll need a copy of Moby Dick." He finished a quiet swagger in his approach.

He dragged the two fingers that had settled against the table away. Russ exchanged a curious look with Joe as Tom strode out. Silently, Russ tipped his head to the side, a narrow grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. Despite everything, despite all that they'd lost and the undoubtedly arduous path that now lay before them—he had unshakable belief in his Admiral.

* * *

Tom closed the door to his temporary office, unlocked his top drawer, and pulled out his secure cell from it. He'd missed no less than a dozen calls from Ashley since the attack. The line hung in dead air as he tried to dial out for the third time, and he flung the phone down. Picked up the landline instead and furiously dialed the numbers, hoping against hope that he'd be able to get through while the networks were overburdened with calls. He tried again after being met with a busy tone.

" _Oh my god, Dad, are you okay?"_ she demanded instantly, the fret evident in her voice. He let out a sharp sigh of relief before he answered her. He clamped his eyes shut momentarily against the surge of emotions that were threatening to swamp him before he found control again.

"I'm okay Ash," he assured, voice calm and collected. He heard her own exaggerated exhale of stress, and further away from the receiver, _"He's okay!"_ to her brother, he assumed before she came back to him. _"I saw the news, we were attacked!? Sasha was on there—they said she killed someone in Panama. And what about Uncle Mike? Is he okay?" S_ he was firing off words franticly, voice coming at him a mile a minute, and the mere mention of Sasha's name made the nausea roll.

"Mike's okay. Listen to me, Ash, I don't know what this is, but it is not safe for you to trust anyone right now, or for you to be anywhere near the White House. I want you to take your brother and go to Sasha's house. I'm sending Debbie and Frankie there too, take the back route. Don't tell anyone where you're going, and no one in or out once you get there. Do you understand me? You do not go with anyone, even if they're military. You hear me?" He said calmly but firmly, his instruction allowing no room for dispute.

There was a brief pause as she sobered, recognizing how serious this was before she responded earnestly. _"Yeah, yeah I understand."_

"Good girl. I don't know when I'll be able to call you. It's not safe, but I'll contact you as soon as I can. And I'm sorry about your birthday—"

" _Dad, that doesn't matter right now! You're gonna go get Sasha, right?"_ She interrupted, and the hope and uncertainty in her voice crushed him. She might never admit it out loud, but she loved Sasha in her own way. As a mentor, someone she could turn to and depend upon, that if she were honest, she deeply respected. Perhaps she hadn't realized how much until this moment. Tom's expression wavered, eyes wincing. Every fiber of his being needed to blow his way through Panama, but the situation was more complex than that.

"I'll bring her home Ash," it was quiet, breathy, and he hoped she couldn't hear the waver in his voice. The unrelenting fear forcing itself to the forefront of his thoughts again. It didn't feel right to burden his kids with the reality that his hands were tied on this.

The relief he heard when she answered him, _"Okay, we love you, Dad,"_ burned. Struck and reminded by just how young she still was. Just how pure it was to still believe her Dad could make miracles. As if him simply stating it would make it so.

He cleared his throat against the heavy lump in his throat, "Love you too, baby. Both of you—tell your brother that."

" _I will. Stay safe, and don't worry, I've got this."_

* * *

**One Hour Post Attack—Panama City, Panama**

Vulture Team ducked into a deserted boarded-up restaurant. The streets were fucking crawling with Federales, and Sasha was still speculating as to how they'd been compromised. The only people that knew about this mission were the POTUS, Tom, and requisite personnel at Southern Command. And he didn't even know the particulars, just that she was in Panama. The kids never knew where in the world she was destined, just that she was on a mission. The entire file was redacted; the plan need to know only. The only way she felt it possible was if their comms weren't secure.

"Fuck, where the hell is Marco?!" Danny hissed, passing a rough hand through his hair as he paced in the back of the building.

"He said he'd be here," Sasha responded, the stress paralleled in her tone.

"Yeah? Well, we're about to get fucked if he doesn't show up soon." Wolf uttered, peeking through a gap in the papers that shielded the windows to the street. Not missing the uniform of a soldier as they ran by, thankfully too shortsighted to investigate the building they were presently in.

Azima could be heard attempting to hail command over the sat phone, something they hadn't been able to do for hours now. Sasha whirled her head to look at her, frustration bubbling over as she asked, "Anything?"

Azima turned, still gripping the phone to her ear, shaking her head regretfully in response. They tensed, each drawing weapons when the door swung open, and Marco rushed in. The frantic nature of their situation reflected upon his face as he slapped his hands together with haste. "Time to go, the Federales are crawling all over this place."

 _No Shit,_ Danny thought, biting back the comment and choosing instead to without it by grinding his jaw aggressively.

"You have a plane?" Sasha confirmed breathlessly, and Marco nodded quickly as they each stepped toward the door. "Si, Si, but it's close to the border—with the resistance. We don't have much time, we need to go now!" he pleaded. They drew their weapons up, Sasha re-adjusting her backpack quickly, and they followed single file out of the restaurant just as swiftly as they'd entered.

They hurried through the back streets and favelas until they arrived at a dirt road, a rusted pickup truck with grain drums in the back awaiting them. Marco gestured, drawing the gate down with a thud, and signaled for them to approach. Sasha sighed, already lamenting where this was leading. The bed of the cabin revealed a hollow floor and they stashed their weapons and gear before returning to the drums.

_Fuck._

She stepped in and hunched down, using every trick in the book to quell the shivering dread, the instinctual flight response that roared through her system as she wedged herself in, and Marco sealed the lid over top. Her breath huffed out in ragged gasps as she struggled to discount the claustrophobia, counting down in her head to enact some control. There were holes drilled to provide for airflow, but the conditions were constrained, her knees forced into her chest and feet twisted sideways to fit. Arms squished at her sides and her lower back pressed tightly against the metal.

* * *

**One Hour, Twenty Minutes Post Attack—USS Nathan James, 25 Nautical Miles from Naval Station Mayport**

"Ma'am, our RHIB's approaching from the South-West; it looks like Commander Slattery is with them, Ma'am." A sailor called from the lookout deck of the bridge. Kara looked up, sucking on her cheeks lightly before rounding the console to join the Midshipmen. He stepped away so she could reach and re-position the binoculars. It was Mike Slattery alright, Burk and Diaz too, though the comfort was short-lived when she noticed the extent of blood soiling their dress whites.

She strode back, signaling with her head for the Midshipmen to hold his position again. Hands clasped behind her back, she stepped back through the pilothouse door, coming back to the center of the bridge, "OOD, send our med team to the deck,"

"Aye, Ma'am," the sailor rushed to the internship comms and relayed her directive. Hopefully, Mike had some answers to explain what the hell had happened. What the state of command was. If her friends were okay. If Danny and the rest of Vulture Team knew they'd been attacked yet.

* * *

**Four Hours Post Attack**

"Captain, we have an unidentified low, slow flier approaching. Bearing 2-0-5, range 6 miles." Gator announced.

Kara stepped closer to the windows, squinting in the orange sunlight as the sun made to slip below the horizon. "Airship approaching, identify yourself and prepare to alter course on my command, over." She directed, speaking steadfastly into the comms.

" _Happy to alter course on your command, Captain, but we're requesting permission to land in a minute, so don't send us too far off."_ Unable to contain it, a grin broke out across her features as Mejia, Burk, and Slattery all reacted with comparable smiles upon hearing the unmistakable voice of Admiral Chandler.

She shook her head. Relief and slight marvel that he'd somehow endured _again_ , holding purchase. "Permission granted."

Beside her, she heard Mike whisper, "Right on time," as he left to meet him on deck.

" _Nathan James, this is Brawler. Much appreciated."_

Mike strode in unison with Tom, both nearing from opposite directions until they met just outside the threshold of the Helo bay. They'd both changed, each now donning blue Digi's, and Tom carried what Mike identified as his travel duffel in his fist. A sharp nod and a stiff handshake served as their form of reception, certifying their gratitude that the other had survived. However, any respite or peace of mind was cast aside and Mike plunged directly into business.

"What the hell is going on, Tom?" he demanded, gruff and voice reduced so the passing Helo crew wouldn't take notice.

Tom's look deadpanned. "Not here. Wardroom **—** five minutes."

Kara was the last to arrive, closing the door gingerly behind her as she joined the table. Admiral Chandler, flanked by her XO Burk, and now shipless Commander Slattery, stood reticent and waiting. Chandler towered from the opposite side of the table. Looking so at home—his steadfast and cool exterior imposing as ever—that for a moment, she almost forgot that she was now Captain of the James. In her mind, this ship would always belong to him, regardless of who commanded it.

"Admiral," she acknowledged, fierce green meeting blue steel, and he bent his head a little in way of a greeting.

"Captain, good to see you—though I wish it were under better circumstances," he returned, sparing a glance at Slattery while she drew her lips together in a tight line. "There's no easy way to say this, so I'll skip the formalities if it's all the same to you." He warned, and she felt her skin crawl. So it was true, the very limited intelligence they'd been able to assemble after the initial attack—the tidbit Mike relayed garnered from the radio broadcast about the US attacking Panama… _Danny_. The morose nature of Tom's stance all but confirmed it. Her heart plummeted.

"We were hacked by an agent of Gran Columbia posing as one of our own." Tom stated bluntly, he pushed one of the manila files set on the table to center and flipped it open. A personnel file she identified, stomach rolling when she looked at the picture it contained. "At fourteen hundred hours, Communications Specialist, Ensign Octavio de La Paz, uploaded a virus into our satellite-based systems and security networks. Still working on the details, but our comms, weapons, radar, navigation, and flight control are down."

"Jesus," Mike uttered, "A sleeper agent?!" said in disbelief as he tried to wrap his head around it. The implications that any number of uniforms could be working for the enemy, and they didn't know it? Nothing got flagged?

Tom tilted his head a tad to acknowledge, left brow lifting somewhat. "He opened fire in the control room, killed twenty-two of our people, injured a dozen more before we were able to put him down. Master Chief and Meylan survived unharmed," he paused, inhaling, and narrowing his eyes, "But we lost Granderson." The words were bitter on his tongue, he looked at the table, clenching his jaw as he gave them a moment to compose themselves.

Kara gasped softly, Mike shook his head, and Carlton muttered something under his breath that he couldn't quite discern though it sounded like expletives. "Kinkaid is dead, DuFine is alive, _for now_. The Cruz is gone. O'Connor and Michener are still afloat but damaged, _badly_. And until we know more, this crew, are the only people we can trust." he rattled off, bringing his arms to cross against his chest. The news settled like lead upon the room. There were moments of silence as it sank in.

There was one thing, he hadn't touched upon Kara regretfully noticed, and she was sure she knew the reasons why. Nevertheless, she needed confirmation. The words were heavy and rigid in her throat. "And our team in Panama?" She questioned, and the shot of anguish that passed across the Admiral's eyes was answer enough.

"No news." He confirmed, silently commending her strength because her reaction was no more than the merest flutter of eyelashes and stiffening of lips before she locked it down.

"What's our next move?" Mike asked.

"We stay at EMCON, head South—figure out where to refuel and get supplies while Meylan and Russ get our troops ready. POTUS is petitioning Congress to declare war, and right now, Nathan James is all we've got." He peered over at Slattery, their eyes meeting in a stern exchange as the severity of their circumstance set in.

"Like old times, huh?" Mike concluded though it didn't lift spirits as much as he'd hoped, "We've done it before, we can do it again." He added more profoundly.

Burk responded, placing both hands on the table to lean forward. "You're damn right we can." The tenacious refusal to roll over and wail in the face of catastrophe, the same defiance they all maintained. Kara's eyes lightened, gripping onto their sentiments. Their commitment and belief internalized and made into her own. The only way to save Danny, the only way to avoid the spiral if Tom lost a second wife, was to be ready. To fight.

They would do it; they _had_ to.

* * *

**Six Hours Post Attack—Edge of the Dari** **én Gap, Panama**

Mercifully, the truck finally rolled to a slow stop, a shrill metal whining as the worn-down breaks ground metal against metal. Sasha opened her eyes slowly, wondering if they'd hit yet another checkpoint. The hours were muddied, stretched to distortion, while she hovered somewhere not quite dormant. The adrenaline and fear wouldn't allow her that reprieve, but she'd found a trance-like state where she focused only on counting to pass the time.

A thud on the side of her drum and the sound of Marco telling them to come out fully awoke her. "End of the road, we hike from here."

Her muscles throbbed, cramping from the contorted position she'd been stuck in, the same pain visible on her team's faces as they each struggled to will their limbs into operation again. Wolf offered his hand to Azima, supported her climb out of the drum, and caught her stumble before she hit the deck—unaware that her legs were completely numb.

Danny made it down first, groaning in protest as he swung his arms and did a few stretches to mitigate the cramps. Marco shuffled nervously from foot to foot, biting at his lip as he kept watch, his head turned every few seconds to scan the area surrounding them. Theirs, the lone car on the highway that led to nowhere. Tapered off into a pitiful excuse of pothole-ridden dirt that broke off at the edge of a shanty village before sinking entirely into a wall of jungle. He observed as Danny caught some of Sasha's weight as she hopped down from the bed of the truck. Grimace still firmly in place because her back wasn't done spasming yet, and she could barely stand upright.

"Uh, I have some bad news," he started anxiously. The group halted, facing him, and for a moment, he considered not telling them. "The US Navy fleet in Florida was attacked, the ships were sunk, and thousands are dead."

Danny shifted forward, his face twisting as he spoke, "What did you just say?"

Marco shook his head, glancing between Danny and Sasha, whose mouth was now hanging agape. "Tavo is taking credit for it as revenge for the murder of El Presidente by Los Americano's—it's all over the radio."

"And you didn't think to tell us sooner!?" Danny suddenly yelled, dragging a hand through his hair as he gritted his teeth and twisted away.

"It was too risky to stop; there were too many checkpoints!" Marco defended passionately, waving his hands in his direction.

Sasha's eyes shifted from side to side rapidly, struggling to work through the shock. "My God," she hissed brokenly, more to herself than anyone else. This couldn't be happening, not now. It was too cruel, it was… " _Tom,_ " she breathed, bringing a shaking hand up to cover her face as she sank back against the bed of the truck.

Danny's hands were on his head, his fingers intertwined at the back and elbows outstretched at a 90-degree angle. He paced away from the group; his back was turned to them as he searched the night sky. _Kara_. The pain exploding in his chest was insurmountable. The thought that she was gone… that she was dead? Completely and utterly unfathomable. So much so that he simply decided it wasn't true. It _couldn't_ be. _It isn't true_. She was too smart for that; they had warning systems, weapons. It was the fucking Nathan James; the Nathan James didn't sink. His wife wasn't dead. He refused it.

Danny whirled around, eyes teeming with moisture and turmoil, and he looked at Sasha. Shaking his head, he told her, "He's wrong. They're bluffing," and she winced. The moisture that pooled in her eyes almost fell because of it.

"Danny," she started, her voice quiet and strangled like it had never been in front of her team before, "It's not a coincidence… you don't overthrow Panama while the US fleet is a threat **—"**

"She's right, mate, this was a coordinated attack **—** " Wolf inserted gently, he'd never heard her like this.

Danny pursed his lips and shook his head rapidly, raising his eyebrows at her. "No." He simply argued. Her eyebrows knotted together in pain, a ghastly sympathetic expression that he didn't want contorting her features as she opened her mouth again. " _No,"_ he repeated, cutting her off before she started. "They're not dead. I know it. Kara, Tom **—** "

" _Stop!_ " She spat out harshly before he'd even finished speaking his name. Thinking about it, hearing his name, the word _Tom_ **—** would break her in a second. And right now, at this moment, she couldn't handle it. She didn't want to hope. She didn't want to accept. She didn't want to process—she wanted to ignore. Blissful ignorance. She wanted to finish her mission. Her mission was to go _home,_ and they had stolen it from her.

She clenched her eyes shut and drew her mouth tightly against the sob that threatened to rip itself from her chest. The action enough to render Danny mute, though he was still imploring her with his eyes to believe him. To validate his denial, for one of them to back him up. To make it not real. There was a thick silence for a moment before anyone spoke.

"How long until we reach the plane?" she asked Marco quietly instead. Sniffing as she blinked away tears and faced him. Eyes treacherously reddened.

"The airstrip is a two-day hike from here,"

"You said it's with the rebels?" Danny interjected, and Marco nodded.

"Si, they have a new leader. Armando Masa." They all looked up in unison, heads snapping up, and Sasha rolled her neck, eyebrow quirking as she ran her tongue over her bottom lip. The irony of their failed mission to take him down in Venezuela—almost a year ago to the date, not lost on any of them.

"What are the odds? The Venezuelan Guerilla. The man who burns people alive," Danny said sarcastically as they each played coy to the fact that the enemy of their enemy was now their only lifeline.

"Si, but don't worry, Armando doesn't do that to his friends," Marco added, and Danny raised his eyebrows. Just who the fuck was this guy, anyway?

"And your friends with Armando?" he asked.

The kid looked sheepish, "Eh, we have some connections in common. But we need to hurry; when that plane leaves, there won't be another one for weeks," he implored. Danny peered around as they each moved and readied themselves to hike. Sasha still refusing to meet his gaze as she shimmied her pack higher on her shoulders. Marco went back to the cabin of the truck. Grabbed some bags and his portable radio and ushered them to follow him into the jungle.

They moved in silence, marching rapidly across the lone bridge that crossed a raging river. Movements hidden by the intense dark. There were no stars, no moon to light their way, and a single sign greeted them when they reached the threshold. Words carved into a post and stuck at the head of the path where it penetrated the dense trees.

" _The End of Safety"_

Danny scoffed as he read it. It was in English—probably made for tourists and would-be adventurers, he assumed. "Real nice," he grumbled as they pushed on past it.


	3. Chapter 3

**December 13** **th** **, 2018—USS Nathan James—0037 Hours**

The tip of the spear sliced effortlessly through the waters of the Florida Straits, devouring the miles toward its goal of refueling and garnering supplies to push south. Two of its former Captains stood on the bridge wing, outside the pilothouse. The dimmed lights glowing red in the night behind their silhouettes. One had moved on, bound now to the land, but the other was shipless. Orphaned. The object of his pride resting in a watery grave, destined to rust until every trace of its breadth was consumed by the very oceans it was built to traverse. He focused on his ship, puffing on a cigar instead of his very possible loss. The weight was too heavy. Feared it might twist him into something else, something he couldn't come back from.

"I'm sorry, Mike," it was honest, raw. It lingered in the air between them unsaid. It had been Burk who'd pulled him aside. Clued him in on the loss of Rios, who'd died stemming the flow of blood from Andrea's wounds, enough to get her to the base hospital, a chance to save her life. A chance that Tom would have prayed on; if he'd still believed that is. As far as he was concerned, God had left them a long time ago. Right around the time Ruskov nuked an entire country just to cut him off.

With arms braced on the railing before him, Mike hissed in a breath, head bobbing with regret. "I'm starting to think we're cursed," he responded, bitter and sullen. Glad that the ball cap shielded his face. This was the closest he'd been to the edge in a long time.

His counterpart grimaced, words cutting closer to truth than was comfortable. "I can't think like that, Mike. You know that." Couldn't consider both being destined to repeat the losses of years prior. The same ones they'd sworn not to open themselves for again while standing right here, on this very spot. The parallels were uncanny.

So, it had already come to that then, Mike mused silently. The denial. "When's the last time you heard from her?" he inquired instead, needing a mental timeline of how long they had before denial made way for something else. Something more sinister and volatile. So he could watch for the signs, make sure he didn't go full Cowboy on them. If anyone could trigger it, it was her, and he figured Tom was probably regretting his little confession right about now.

" _I can't breathe without her, Mike."_

Tom glanced at his watch, and the speed with which he answered showed as much. "Seventy-Eight hours," it was quiet, precise, and he didn't doubt he knew the minutes too. Tom would utter not one more word about it. Simply refused and focused on pushing away the voice that had counted the days - all fifty-three of them since she'd left.

"The kids?"

"Safe. Headed to Charleston. Debbie and Frankie too," and Mike was glad. Not just for Tom, but for Kara. They had some peace of mind, at least. They lapsed into silence, accompanied by the hum of the engines, the noise of their wake, and the puffs of cigar.

* * *

Tom had stretched his duties as far as they could go, puttered until he could no more. Time, he recognized, was his worst enemy. It was late, _or early_ —depending on how you defined it. His sock-clad feet lay crossed on the bed, legs bridging the gap between it and the chair where his body sat melded; had declined the offer of Captain's Cabin, both portside, and at-sea.

" _Humility always did look good on you."_

And there she was, haunting him—intruding when he didn't mean for it. Recollections triggered by the most inane of things, like picking a stateroom. Before him, his duffel sat unopened. The bed freshly made. Four perfectly folded towels next to it, and the requisite standard-issue toiletry kit left on top. Everything in order, as it should be.

His mind fought for purchase, knowing silence to be a foolish wish. Everything competed for attention, everything but solace. There was none to be had. Should he continue to plot strategy for another twelve hours when he'd just spent as many doing just that? Or did he worry about his kids? Think about the fact that he should be with them in St. Louis to celebrate Ashley's birthday. Did he worry about Mike? About Andrea, Anita, Kara, his crew? Should he think about Granderson, or Rios, or Don?

_Or her._

That voice whispered, and his heart yearned.

So much so he reached forward, slowly unzipping the duffel to retrieve his cell. For several minutes he thumbed through photos, crow's feet wrinkling around tender eyes until they saddened. A hesitation before pressing play.

_Wild hair lay splayed across plush pillows like dark mahogany silk. Long lashes closed against her cheeks, coffee-colored freckles more pronounced without makeup, and covers drawn up to her chin, burrowed in sleep. There came the sound of a stifled snort as her snores broke the image of serenity. And whether it was those senses tingling or perhaps his laugh, she stirred. A different noise, one of awakening that had interrupted the rumbling sounds that fell from her slack-jawed lips, followed by sleepy blue eyes squinting up at him—caught in the act. They blinked groggily as she shifted, a hand covering her face and rubbing away sleep as she mumbled._

" _What are you doing_ —" _and the smile could be heard in his voice when he answered._

" _Gathering evidence," the footage blurred in a flurry as hands snatched at the phone, obscuring the view for short seconds before she was back in the frame._

" _You didn't!?" an indignant response, expression of sleep softened shock that made her so precious to him._

" _You told me to prove it," and she was up fully, kneeling on the bed. Fierce and indignant, flimsy camisole slipping from one shoulder. Midriff exposed where the fabric bunched, and her pajama pants hung low. Her head shook slowly as that expression morphed, fighting the smile she wanted to give. Body preparing to attack, and his hand entered the frame, holding up a finger to ward her off._

" _Wait_ — _"_

" _I am gonna shove that phone so far up your ass Thomas!" and she surged forward again, this time fast enough to grab it while he barked with laughter, "You're gonna need sonar to fucking find it," and the sounds of more laughter, and rustling, a blurred flurry of indistinguishable mess before it stopped._

He'd never missed her more.

* * *

**Darién Gap, Panama**

They were stopped. Did so every few hours to rest, take a piss, or catch twenty minutes of sleep before they were up again and pressing on. This pit stop was unremarkable, like all the others, fraught with unspoken tension and the focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Marco spun up his radio, listening for updates with it pressed close to his ear.

"Anything?" Danny asked him, bringing the metal canteen down from his lips.

Marco nodded, still listening to the streams of Spanish. "Si, Gustavo has put a bounty on your heads. One hundred thousand pesos each,"

Danny pursed his lips. Nothing they could do about that. "What about the fleet?" he pressed more quietly. From her seat on the ground, Sasha listened, eyes drifting in their direction though not making contact. She'd been avoiding looking at any of them all night, ever since Danny had started silently pleading with her to get on his plane of denial. She wanted to; she really did—but the need to protect herself from hope was too great.

Marco's body language tensed, "They're saying it's destroyed **—** the command center too, Tavo is taking credit,"

Danny's posture slumped and outwardly, Sasha's reaction was nothing more than the trailing off of her eyes. Moving them away from her counterparts to study the thick mud caked to her boots. They were glassy, unfocused as the words percolated.

And the way Danny looked now? Well, that's exactly why she didn't want hope.

* * *

**USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Meylan and Jeter sat stiffly in a conference room, awaiting the arrival of the Commander-In-Chief. A visit that both felt was ill-advised, though the logic Reiss gave in response to their objections was hard to argue with. Simply put, if there were agents working inside of the US government, it didn't matter where he was. They'd find a way to get to him. The door swung open, and before they'd made it out of their seats to stand, his hand had come up to wave them down aggressively.

"I want to talk to Tom Chandler," wasting no time in issuing his demand.

Meylan glanced at Jeter before he responded, both asses still hovering above chairs because it had been so fast. They sat back down again slowly, and Meylan laced his fingers together, resting them on the desk before him. "Sir, the Chief of Naval Operations is at EMCON. In his absence, I have been briefed and am more than—"

Reiss cut him off with an aggravated expression and another wave of his hand. He'd already heard the spiel from them yesterday, in fact the words were identical. "Look, I get it. No one respects the guy more than I do," and Russ fought to stop himself rolling his eyes because he could name 205 of them right off the bat, "hell they even tried to run him for President and he refused, but I am still the Commander-in-Chief!" He ranted, pointing his finger down on the table to accentuate himself.

Meylan tucked his chin somewhat, "Sir, I understand your frustration—"

"My frustration!? I am more than frustrated, Admiral. I am about to declare War on Central and South America, the body count just surpassed a thousand, I am two generals down, the world thinks we assassinated the President of Panama, and you're telling me that the head of my military is on radio silence?!"

Meylan figured the best response at this point would be nothing because the only answer he could give was "yes" and that's clearly not what Reiss wanted to hear. No matter, he could take the heat.

"And what about this Octavio? Have we found anything?"

Russ cleared his throat, "Sir, we're still gathering intel, but we were able to access his phone records, there's a number, it's local—only thirty minutes from base. Property is registered to Elli Baker, likely a girlfriend or spouse. We're bringing her in now for questioning."

Reiss pursed his lips, resting a hand on his hip as he glared at them both. "Well, at least we've got _something_ right," his tone sarcastic.

* * *

Kelsi bit her nails frantically waiting for the line to pick up–they'd just taken her sister, probably would have arrested her too if she hadn't been in her car down the street. Everything was happening, just as he'd said. They were framing him, using him as the scapegoat, lying about Panama. About everything they'd done and been doing for years.

" _Hola,"_

Her heart raced, "Hello?"

" _Si, hello,"_ they switched to English, though the accent was thick.

"I-I have information for Tavo. About the American's in Panama," she stuttered, eyes scanning constantly for fear of the military rolling in.

There was a pause and some shuffling, "How did you get this number?"

"Octavio told me to call when it happened. He said you'd know who I am and that you would help me when they come for me. They just arrested my sister!"

Another pause, long enough that she pulled the phone away to see if the call had dropped. _"You are Kelsi, Si?"_

She snapped it back to her ear, "Yes!"

There was more rustling, more silence before a different voice spoke. _"Kelsi, I am General Hector Martinez of La Gran Columbia. Tell me what you know, and you will find yourself under the protection of La Gran Columbia and Tavo himself."_

She pursed her lips, "How can I be sure you'll do what you say?"

" _Tavo does not leave those loyal behind. There is a safe house, with brothers and sisters of the Empire who will help you. I will send you there,"_ he spoke confidently.

She hesitated for a few more seconds, chewing her lip, eyes darting rapidly. "The woman in Panama, Sasha Cooper. I think she's Tom Chandler's wife."

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Florida Straits**

_Well, I'll be damned, a Corvette Class Warship._

Burk, Slattery, Green, and Chandler stood huddled around a navigational map in the CIC. Around them, their crew listened and watched, using every available resource they had without radar to detect movement.

Kara was braced on the console, he with arms crossed loosely as he waited for the pattern.

Beside him, Burke spoke. "Gustavo's taking out merchant ships to disrupt trade. It's a classic wartime maneuver, German U-boats did the same thing."

"He's letting everyone know Gran Columbia owns these waters," a terse observation from Kara.

Wright called out, "Relative bearing 2-2-0" and Mike dutifully marked a red X on the chart.

"Heading south again—definitely a search pattern," he said, straightening up and sparing him a look. One that communicated they were in trouble. The island chain wouldn't mask them forever.

"Probably wasn't expecting to find us," Burk added, leaning both fists against the hunk of metal. "At least at this range, they may not have I.D.'d us yet,"

Tom inhaled, let his head bear left a touch. "They know who we are," came the low rasp. All heads turned to him, "They smell blood in the water. Not activating fire-control radar, shooting down their missile with CIWS—we tipped our hand," cool, calm, collected.

Mike nodded, "Agreed."

Kara removed her hands, "We're faster. We can make a run for it—"

"And we lose our chance to refuel and resupply," Burk countered, and Kara made a regretful expression because he was right. They could not push south without it, and they hadn't even joined the fight.

"Last they saw, the US fleet was burning. Seeing a warship out here has got to have em' wondering," Mike said, tipping his head to the side as he looked up at Tom. The curve of his lip communicated that they were on the same wavelength.

"How many did I miss?" Tom finished for him, drawing his arms away from his chest. Kara peered between them, nodding her understanding.

"They're looking for one ship," she said, a slow glint in her eye.

Tom bobbed his head, looking down at the Captain, the same intensity swirling in steely blue, "Let's show them we've got a whole fleet."

* * *

**Tavo Compound, Undisclosed, Columbia**

Tavo squinted, dressing down his general with his eyes.

"¿Por qué no le dijo esto a Octavio antes?" he said. _Why did she not tell Octavio this before?_

"Dijo que no recordaba la nota hasta que la vio en las noticias." Hector responded readily. S _he didn't remember until she saw her on the news._

Tavo peered, interlacing his hands together as he formulated and thought. His elbows came to rest on his desk, leaning forward somewhat as his general stood steadfast under his glare.

"Flores?" he pressed. _Flowers._

A smirk pulled at the general's lip, "Si, en su oficina. Por su aniversario." He confirmed. _In her office, for their anniversary._

One simple mistake. Forgotten to dispose of them before she'd left for Panama. Left in vase for three weeks until Kelsi had stumbled upon the wilting petals on her first day. It had been so long since she'd seen roses. They caught her eye as she'd dropped a copy of a report on her desk as instructed. Nosy eyes spying a post-it stuck to the vase.

_These took me three weeks to find. Happy Anniversary—Tom_

Tavo sucked on his cheeks as his mind conspired. "Enmiende la recompensa. Triplicalo. Y la encontré, _vivo_ , a Héctor" he said. _Triple the bounty, I want her alive._

"Si," Hector pounded his chest before extending his arm, "Viva Tavo!"

* * *

**USSOUTHCOM, Mayport. Florida**

Russell Jeter gestured with his head for Joe to find a way to excuse himself from the presence of the President. The almost imperceptible nod from Meylan confirmed he understood, and it was not long before they were both huddled in a small, secluded office room.

Russ wasted no time once the door closed in starting, "We've got a problem. The sister used to work at the White House," he pulled up the folder in his hands, passing it to Joe whose brow had already deeply furrowed. Meylan snapped it open to read its contents, and Russ saw the exact moment it dawned on him, eyes going wide.

"We need to break EMCON," Meylan surmised.

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Gulf of Mexico**

Tom stalked into the communications room, anxiety churning because there were very few reasons worthy of breaking EMCON, yet his Admiral had done just that. He reached the long-range HF, donning a headset. Pointed to the specialist to hand over the pencil and paper they held ready to record and dismissed them from the room.

"This is CNO, you have the book?" he asked.

" _I do. Chapter 1, Paragraph 5, line 12, word 17,"_

Tom scribbled the instructions, "Continue,"

_Chapter 1, Paragraph 3, line 2, word 1,"_

The instructions proceeded, word by word until Meylan confirmed he was done, and Tom had decoded the intel.

_Old Whitehall assistant found imbedded._

" _Is the message clear?"_ Meylan asked, and Tom breathed. Lips tight and stare stern as he responded.

"Yes. The message is clear."

* * *

"Are you saying they've been planning this for three years?" Mike asked incredulously as Tom paced the side of the wardroom table. The bad news just kept on coming, and any victory he'd felt sinking that Corvette evaporated astonishingly fast.

"I'm saying they could have everything," his tone laced with disgust, "Centers of gravity, fuel operations, fleet plans, troop levels, bases," and he closed his mouth, cursing silently in his mind. Couldn't believe how right she'd been. How many times now? He'd lost count. Tom trusted her implicitly, had switched assistants within the month, but Hughes wouldn't let Kelsi go. Told Sasha they were being paranoid in the wake of Shaw, a point she could not contest with zero evidence outside of her gut.

Somewhere deep in Tom's psyche a thought formed, coiling tightly; what if she _knew?_ What if they hadn't been as careful as he'd thought?

And Mike saw it, the moment where the denial, gave way to that something else.


	4. Chapter 4

**December 14** **th** **, 2018—Darién Gap, Panama**

Beads of sweat rolled down the back of her neck, tickling a path between her shoulder blades in the stifling humidity. They'd set a blistering pace, cumulatively stopping for perhaps four hours in the past two days. Delirium would come in a few short hours, though that was not unexpected, nor something they weren't trained to push through.

The journey was filled with none of their usual banter, seemingly each lost in their own heads—or rather Danny and Sasha were. Wolf and Azima had each other. There was comfort in that, a fact that was lost on neither of them.

Marco halted on the invisible track he seemed to follow. To them, there was no discernable path. The sections of jungle he followed looked just the same as the last, and the parts before that… and the ones just ahead. Endless, maddening tangles of vegetation that sapped twice the energy in a single step to traverse. He held up a hand and pointed to a stalk, marked by a machete very distinctively.

"We're getting close," he explained quietly to the group, who had paused to observe.

Danny flinched suddenly, weapon at the ready—could have sworn he heard a noise. One that sounded distinctly like a foot snapping a twig. Sasha tensed, bringing her weapon up with him but pointed in the other direction, and Wolf and Azima followed suit. Eyes keen as they peered into the jungle, trying to make sense of the dancing shapes of green—nearly impossible even without the added sleep deprivation that fogged their brains. Marco stood frozen, straining to make out anything over the sounds of insects, the never-ending bird cries, and howls of monkeys.

They were about to move, convinced it must have been an animal when a flurry of movement and yelling occurred. The trees erupted with bodies, and they found themselves surrounded by no less than a dozen men—every last one of them pointing guns at their heads.

Marco immediately rose his hands, shouting at them in Spanish, pleading for their lives, Sasha discerned, before he was smacked with the butt of a rifle. His lip split, oozing blood down his face, and he silenced. They knew, and they were here for them. There could be no doubt.

"¡Americanos, bajen sus armas!" the soldier bellowed, and Danny scrunched his eyes together in defeat. There was no way in hell they could take them. Wasn't all too interested in being captured either, and for a painful second, he found himself actually considering going out in a blaze of glory. Of letting go, saying fuck it, and raining as many bullets as possible before they shot him dead.

"¡Hazlo!" The soldier shouted again, pushing the barrel of his gun until it rested mere inches from Danny's face. The anger was causing his body to shake visibly, could see it as he bared his teeth and complied, the rest of them doing the same, weapons falling to the ground.

A Colonel appeared behind the soldiers, wearing a Columbian badge. An evil and satisfied grin contorted his scarred and weathered face as he stepped forward, addressing them in English, though his accent was thick.

"Tavo has been looking for you. _Three hundred_ thousand pesos each!" the glee at his prize was clear—he looked around to his shoulders, gesturing to them as if they were a gift that he'd delivered.

"¡Los encontramos! Es tu dia de paga," and Danny watched as malicious smiles broke out on the other men's faces. He glanced to his left, to Sasha, to find she was already looking at him. Her chin tucked low and lips together tightly. He didn't need a translation to understand.

"Traerlos!" the Colonel commanded, and their hands were grabbed roughly and forced behind their backs.

* * *

**Tavo Compound—Undisclosed, Columbia**

Hector burst into the room, ignoring the glare Conchita gave at his interruption. Tavo frowned, his anger clear before Hector interrupted him.

"Los hemos encontrado!"

Tavo looked at him intensely for a brief moment before a smile covered his face, and he pounded the table with his fist, impassioned by the news, before clapping his hands together once in triumph.

"¿¡Dónde!?" he asked, _where_.

"Veinte millas del Puente," Hector answered. _Twenty miles from the bridge._

He clenched his fist with excitement again before rounding the table to stand before Hector.

"Este es nuestro momento Héctor. Los estadounidenses creen que ganarán porque tienen esperanza. Debemos quitarles eso. ¡Exponga sus crímenes al resto del mundo, no ceda! Debemos mostrarles que Chandler es débil. Una vez que hagamos eso, el continente será nuestro." He spoke passionately, accentuating his point by stepping into his personal space and grabbing his shoulders. _This is our moment Hector. The American's believe they will win because they have hope. We must take that from them. Expose their crimes to the rest of the world, do not relent! We must show them that Chandler is weak. Once we do that—the continent is ours._

"Si, Tavo," Hector responded, nodding as a smile spread upon his lips.

* * *

**December 15th, 2018** **—** **USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán**

Kara walked through the p-ways, navigating the narrow corridors with ease. Knew them better than her own home at this point. The walk from the bridge was spent wondering if it might be best to turn back—head to her quarters instead, but she was almost there, and right now, it seemed that only one person on this ship understood her predicament—a burden she had never experienced until now. Kara knocked before nerves got the best of her and waited for permission to enter.

" _Come in,"_

Inhaling once, strengthening her resolve, she pushed the door open; noting the faint protest that she'd need a crewmember to fix. She ran a tight ship, and to her, any kind of material breakdown was inadmissible under her watch.

Tom was leaning casually in his chair, one elbow propped on the desk and hand holding something in his fist that she couldn't see. The only source of illumination in the darkened room came from a table lamp, the shadows only adding to his imposing demeanor. His feet lay crossed in front of him, out straight, and he drew his head up and back slightly, a little concern coloring his features upon seeing her.

"Captain," he greeted with a small nod. "What can I do for you?" he asked, not moving an inch from his position. Despite herself, she still felt every bit the Lieutenant who'd broken the rules in that moment, through no action of his own. Simply put, his presence demanded it.

Perhaps that's why she struggled to answer him, surprised to find that she hadn't actually thought this far—a regretful oversight on her part. Tom's eyes narrowed considerably, reading her, trying to discern her intentions. Calmly, he waited, and she struggled through her thoughts before matching his gaze.

"It's difficult—having the choice and choosing differently every day." She winced at her own words, not expecting to be so frank—or vulnerable for that matter, but the Admiral had always listened. Had always been fair, and more importantly, he had always been kind—human, in the face of their struggles. Strong, when they didn't know how to be, and humble when he'd fallen from grace. She swallowed, brows drawing together, "I think you might understand that more than anyone," she finished quietly.

The softening of his eyes, hollowing of cheeks, and tilt of his head conveyed his understanding silently, and Kara hadn't anticipated the relief she'd feel at simply being seen. The ache was still there. The worry. The unrelenting thoughts about how she would tell Frankie that his father was never coming home… The ball in her throat surged, and she dropped eye contact, reading instead the charter map laid on the desk.

There were markings, notations of distances, circles drawn around particular locations—and it dawned on her that he was searching. Trying to retrace Vulture Team's movements with the very minimal intel they'd gained. She wanted to ask; the questions burning so deeply they frightened her with their strength. But she doubted her own resilience to keep making that choice if Tom had even a fraction of an idea where they might be.

He noticed, of course, ever perceiving, and murmured, "I do, and you're doing it admirably." Kara's eyes snapped up, meeting his instead, and she blinked a few times. "That was a great speech, by the way." He added casually, referring to the address she'd given her crew the night of the attack. Mess deck full of rookies looking to her for guidance and giants whose footsteps she was now destined to repeat.

A small smile pulled at the corner of her lip, though not quite filling her features in response to his affirmation. "I had a few examples to draw from." For a beat of silence, he smiled softly, tucking his head a fraction against the praise—still uncomfortable with the pedestal he seemed to live upon. "What do you know?" she finally asked, unable to ignore the burning any longer. The direction of her gaze toward the map, indicating non-verbally what she was asking for.

Tom considered her for a brief moment before he moved, drawing his legs to cross under him, rather than in front. Kara stepped closer, hovering by his left shoulder, and he moved his right hand—placed the thing he'd been holding softly on the surface. Sasha's ring, she realized.

"Not much," his tone was regretful, "Depending on which way they went, and assuming they haven't been caught, they're either in Costa Rica by now or somewhere in the Darién Gap." Kara nodded tightly, recognizing now that the numbers were travel times. Calculations of how long it would take to offer extraction from their position in the strait.

"What does your gut tell you?" she asked, and he pursed his lips as he stared at the map.

"South," and Kara swallowed thickly. Exactly the direction she'd been hoping against. The travel time percolated in her mind uncomfortably; even with the Helo, they were more than a day from offering any support. And that was only _if_ they were able to defend the strait. _If_ Cuba and Mexico joined the fight. _If_ they survived.

_If, if, if._

" _Toward_ Columbia?"

"Easiest place to hide. North means roads, checkpoints, and borders. Gap belongs to the rebels; it's no-man's-land. The smugglers have planes—" He elaborated quietly, trailing off before recounting the requisite and obvious dangers. She didn't need to be told; they were obvious.

Kara jerked her head in way of response—his logic was sound, as was his gut. Descending into a blubbering mess of tears before her CNO was not an option, though, with this information, it's precisely what she wanted to do. They were on their own, and her hands were tied. Tom knew enough to reasonably execute a search operation. Already her mind was screaming. If they went south, maneuvered the James offshore, and listened for centers of gravity, they could map activity. Narrow the search area, and send VBSS teams, signal to their people, send the Helo and RHIB's…

_They could find them, she realized._

And heart-wrenchingly, she had to neglect it. Because the mission was to hold the Strait and take back the gulf, secure the canal. Protect the fueling station. Show Columbia that the US was strong and not backing down. Give others a choice to join them in resisting. This was about saving her country, not her husband's life. Kara drew back, "I see," she acknowledged, voice barely stronger than a murmur.

Clearing her throat, she rectified her posture, "I'll leave you to it," and made for the door. Stopping only when he called her back. "Kara," caught off guard as she didn't recall the last time he'd addressed her by name and not rank. Her eyes tightened as she twisted back toward him, unmistakably glassy.

"My door's always open," he added softly, and she ducked her eyes while her lip trembled. After a few seconds, she nodded sharply and turned. Escaping just as precipitously as she'd arrived.

Tom stared at the door for a time, processing the visit before he exhaled. Shifting his legs out to their original position, he palmed the ring again, running it absently from knuckle to knuckle like a coin.

* * *

**Darién Gap, Panama**

Tavo's men had marched them through the Jungle for hours until they reached a camp. Unceremoniously, they were thrown into the back of a truck, surrounded with guards and their hands and feet secured to the posts of the canopy backing. It left them with very little ability to mount an escape. So far, they had not been questioned nor approached, and while that should bring comfort—it could only mean one thing. The soldiers were either waiting for someone to arrive before they were interrogated. Or they were being transported elsewhere.

Waiting, they realized, was a torture in and of itself. They were careful not to communicate out loud. The flimsy canvas did little to insulate noise. They listened instead to garner any useful intelligence from the streams of Spanish and broadcasts on radios. Marco and Sasha, doing most of the work simply because they understood, and the others focused on the words that came in English. So far, it seemed they were near a bridge—and thousands of troops were expected to start moving across it in two days. From there, an unrestricted path lay right up to the border of Mexico, and if Mexico fell? Well, it didn't bear thinking about.

They'd been shackled for hours, moved only for one bathroom break at gunpoint. The guard making no secret of ogling both women as they went, something which left Sasha's skin crawling for hours. Everyone knew what happened to female prisoners of war, and he'd made clear what was in store for them. In hushed tones, the team had surmised their odds; _non-existent_ against the fifty or so men that formed the platoon. And that was without considering the troops gathered on the opposite side of the bridge.

With every passing minute, it sank in that they had little to no chance, barring a miracle of undefined proportions, she wasn't going home. None of them were. This was the end of the line, and she'd never felt her own mortality more surely since Asia. The team's morale was not much better; the reflection of her fears mirrored within their faces. Finally, she succumbed to the thoughts kept at bay for three days now. If she was going to die, the least she could do was spend her remaining time in the comfort of memories.

* * *

**December 16th, 2018** **—** **USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Joseph was getting tired of being yelled at; that much was for sure. He was only half pretending to listen as the President ranted, once again, that they'd failed in their duties for letting Tom Chandler leave. Something about him being the face of the war, the public needing to see him front and center for morale—one of dozens of reasons. Mostly, Joe was beginning to think the President just needed him as a popularity device.

"And I'm to believe you're using a 19th-century novel as some kind of codebook?!"

Meylan rose an eyebrow, tuning back in just at the right moment to respond, "Yes, Sir. Moby-Dick."

Reiss made an incredulous face, jaw going slack as he processed it. "I hated that book."

Meylan humored him, though the smile he gave appeared more as a smirk and failed to reach his eyes. "It is a bit of a slog, Sir."

The door opened behind him, and Reiss snapped at the intrusion, "What is it Master Chief?" the frustration in his tone not hidden. They were number one and number two on his shit list.

Russ stood stiff at attention, arms tight at his sides in full stance. "Sir, excuse me. We just heard from Nathan James. Admiral Chandler's managed to bring Mexico and Cuba together to blockade the Yucatán Strait."

Reiss failed to look impressed, "Terrific," he paused, slamming down the pen he'd been tapping on the table for effect. "And I imagine we'll coordinate the mission through a careful reading of War and Peace." He added with sarcasm.

Meylan tucked his chin and remained silent. Seemed to do a lot of that lately. Reiss ground his jaw before leaning back and regarding them both sternly. "Make no mistake; I don't mind replacing every damn one of you, Chandler included. But you need to finish what you started and prove to me that I have the right team in place. Move the army into Mexico. Save that oil complex."

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán**

Mike was beginning to lose his cool. His mess deck was a mess—pun intended—Fuentes and Aguilar were still bickering like children, even after agreeing to assist, and he'd just been summoned by Commander Green for a closed-door meeting. Never a good omen.

Kara stood when he entered her cabin, pulling herself out of the desk chair in which she'd been sitting. Tom, who had been perched stoically on the sofa, also stood, clasped his hands behind him. Didn't take a genius to read the room. Mike swallowed, stomach rolling,

"Might wanna take a seat," Tom announced seriously.

"I'll stand," he dismissed, mostly wanting them to get it over with—spit it out. Tom nodded once sharply in acknowledgment, sparing one side-eyed glance at Kara before continuing.

"Andrea's in a coma. There were complications after surgery. There is some brain activity, but the doctors say there's nothing more they can do. She has a chance, but it's slim. Less than 10 percent." It was soft, direct, just as he'd want to be told if the situation were reversed—no need for mince words. "I'm so sorry, Mike," he added earnestly.

"The Helo's yours if you want it. Just enough range to drop you at Key West. Master Chief can get you to Mayport from there." Kara added, her forest-green eyes wide and empathetic.

Mike's expression became tight, head bobbing absently as he processed it. His fists were clenched, the unmistakable burn of anger, regret, and sorrow blasting its way up his sternum. He cleared his throat, "I'd like a minute," he wrestled out. And they both immediately moved.

"Of course," Kara responded, making for the door with Tom on her heels. In the silence that followed, Mike shrank. Like a wave as it hit him, he shriveled, a few stunted sobs forcing themselves from his heart as he sank into the sofa.


	5. Chapter 5

Mike had no idea how long he'd stayed stuck there. The tears had passed. Replaced with un-relenting hope that Andrea would pull through, it was the only way he could cope. The only way he could function. In the face of despair, he chose to cling to the light. Andrea was strong and resilient, and if anyone could fight, it was her. He also knew well enough that she would want him to go on. To finish the mission, and that's exactly what he was going to do. Mike was almost ready to head back to the bridge, his decision to stay made when the internship comms and all hands alarm lit up.

" _All hands, set General Quarters–Man your battle stations!"_

He rushed to the pilothouse. "Admiral Slattery on the Bridge," the OOD announced. The usual suspects were already there, and Tom glanced over his shoulder in response to his arrival, "What's going on?" Mike asked, wasting no time in moving to stand at his side.

"Columbian airwing incoming," Tom answered quickly, grabbing a pair of binoculars to scope the horizon.

* * *

**Darién Gap, Panama**

Hector strode into the camp; arms clasped tight behind his back as his soldiers scrambled themselves to attention. He made little attempt to hide his disgust at their disorganized surroundings, their failure to maintain the standards expected within his military, and silently he cursed Tavo for reducing his army to this. Impatiently, he awaited the Colonel; yet another buffoon he'd inherited whose appearance was sloppy and disheveled as he finally emerged from his tent.

"Donde estan ellos," the demand was immediate, and the Colonel flustered, responding rapidly to his terse inquiry.

"De esta manera, Señor," he answered, gesturing with his arm for General Martinez to follow him.

The prisoners each looked up as the canopy rustled, revealing a man flanked by two soldiers. A man that they all immediately recognized as Hector Martinez. Sasha worked to control the roll of her eyes and stared at the floor defiantly, ignoring the heat of his smug gaze as he zeroed in on her.

"Ms. Cooper. I did not think that we would meet again so soon," He spoke, a chillingly charming grin upon his face. Sasha affixed a perfectly false toothy grin upon hers in response and rose her gaze, remaining silent. "You, or your friends," he continued using a hand to gesture toward the other prisoners. Wolf jeered at him in response whilst the inclination of Sasha's eyebrow was the only acknowledgment she gave. Hector dropped his head, a small chuckle filling the room as he nodded—it was exactly as he'd expected. American spies, they were all the same.

"I must apologize for my oversight. Had I known your last name was Chandler, I would have made it a point to introduce myself sooner," he deadpanned, the informant's suspicions confirmed by the oppressive stillness that settled over them all. The very careful nonreaction she and the rest of the prisoners gave, save for the barest twitch of her lip.

Hector stared at her for several tense seconds, a slow smile that left no room for misunderstanding spreading across his lips before he turned his attention to Marco. The young man sat frozen, eyes wide like a deer in headlights as the General stared him down.

"llevarlo," Hector ordered, and the soldiers immediately stepped forward to pull him from the bed of the truck. Vulture Team tensed, though they could do nothing to help him, and Marco pleaded as they dragged him violently out.

Hector remained steadfast, appearing almost bored while he waited. The canopy flaps closed; Marco's cries could be heard as he begged for his life before a single gunshot rang out. A gunshot that made each of them flinch, followed by the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the ground. Sasha worked hard to control her breathing, the guilt flaring wildly within her chest… she closed her eyes and swallowed.

Hector smiled again, addressing the group. "You see now what happens to La Gran Columbia's enemies. Everyone must pay for their crimes," he paused, making sure to look at each of their faces before he continued. "Tomorrow, you will answer for yours," he settled his gaze directly upon Sasha again before he left the truck.

"How the hell did they find out" Danny hissed under his breath as soon as Hector left. Sasha could do nothing but shake her head, the same shock now evident as her mouth hung agape. They had to have tapped their satellite communications, surely? But how? How had they been so severely compromised with no warning? And no one caught it?

"What the fuck is going on?" Wolf spat.

* * *

Tom strode back into the pilothouse from the bridge wing with purpose. He was done playing games. "Give me long-range HF radio. I've got a message for Gustavo, and I want the world to hear it." Mike narrowed his eyes—a silent question, one mirrored in the body language of Burk, Kara, and their two foreign guests. Hell, everyone on the bridge, for that matter.

"You're live, Sir," said the OOD, handing him the receiver.

Tom turned decisively, catching Kara's small nod as he faced the room.

" _This is Nathan James calling Gustavo Barros."_

Sasha's head snapped up, eyes immediately going wide—her heart beating arrhythmically as it skipped several beats. His unmistakable voice rendered near-instant silence within the camp as it boomed over a radio, all the bustling chatter and movement halting within a second.

" _We just took out your Airwing, and you didn't lay a glove on us. You can mark that up with your Corvette. Payback, for Mayport."_

Danny stared; eyes rapidly watering because his relief was so overwhelming in its intensity. A slow and reverent smile started to spread across Azima's face. They were _alive_.

" _You may have hit us hard, but you didn't finish us. You know why? Because you can't. And now Mexico and Cuba have joined the fight."_

Sasha's lip trembled as she did her best to stay in control, savoring every second of his voice, painfully aware that it would likely be the last time she ever heard it. That whatever victory he felt would be so short-lived when he found out.

On the bridge of the James, Tom paused for a moment, directly making eye contact with both Aguilar and Fuentes before he continued. "So this message goes out to _all_ of Central and South America. There is a choice now. Join us. Send Gustavo back into the dirt hole he crawled out of. We fight for peace but make no mistake; we will fight. And this ship, and this crew? They're damn good at it. So, Gustavo—come at us again, I dare you. This is Nathan James, out."

* * *

**Tavo's Compound—Undisclosed, Columbia**

Conchita shook her head disparagingly as they listened to Chandler's address, rearing her head to her husband, "¡Los fracasos de Héctor te están avergonzando!" she spat. _Hector's failures are embarrassing you._ "Hágales saber a los estadounidenses que hemos capturado a su gente," she implored. _Let Chandler know we have his wife._

Tavo ran a hand over her hair in a calming manner, peering resolutely at the radio as if the action alone could let him gaze into the eyes of his enemy. "No. Si lo saben, intentarán organizar un rescate. Quiero que sepa que está indefenso. Tener paciencia." His voice was quiet, firm as he loomed behind her chair. _No, he will try to mount a rescue. I want him to know he is helpless._

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán**

Mike entered the wardroom to find Tom grabbing a coffee. It was late, closer to midnight, if he had to guess. Tom looked up; fingers splayed evenly around the rim of the mug as he set it on the table, inclining his head in silent greeting. They hadn't had the chance to talk about it since he'd delivered the news. Mike nodded tightly at him in greeting, closing the door and coming to stand on the opposite side.

"Glad you're still with us, though I wouldn't think less of you for leaving," Tom started carefully. His tone was soft as he tested the waters. There were only ever two moods with Mike: talkative or not. And despite years of working together in the most stressful situations imaginable, his counterpart was a master at hiding his emotions. A trait Tom envied if he were honest.

Mike considered his words, "It's what she'd want," he responded simply, a little tight in his voice, and Tom narrowed his eyes in response. Picked up the mug and took a long sip, "Coffee?" he asked, gesturing with his head to the machine behind him.

"Sure,"

Tom poured another mug, black with no sugar, and handed it to Mike across the table, who muttered a thanks. That wasn't why he'd come, however. "Picked up some radio chatter, it's not much but they're saying a local was killed - for helping the American's escape Panama,"

Tom paused, eyes hovering before they cast off again. "I heard," he muttered, and the words were breathy like a sigh as he perched himself against the table, resting his arm on his thigh as he hunched. Whether that was good news remained to be seen—though his gut was telling him otherwise.

Mike nodded and moved on. "Anything on the assistant?"

Tom pursed his lips, dissatisfaction shining through, "Nothing. She went to ground before they could find her. They're still looking." He paused and smirked, which caught Mike off guard, for it certainly didn't fit the tone. "Meylan said Reiss is pissed," and suddenly it made sense.

Mike chuckled a shit-eating grin that he hid by taking a sip of his drink. "All due respect, Reiss is an ass."

Tom smiled, "I don't disagree," he said, drinking another gulp.

"Told ya you should have ran. You would have won in a heartbeat," Mike quipped, tipping his head to the side somewhat.

Tom scoffed, "Can you really imagine me wearing a suit every day?" he deadpanned, and Mike laughed.

"You? No. But Sasha would make a great first lady. She has that fancy wardrobe," and he kicked himself for the mistake. Tom's smile faltered, the weariness settling back into his features, the weight he carried visibly causing his shoulders to slump.

"We'll get her back," Mike said confidently, needing to say something to amend his faux pas. Tom nodded, using his cup as a distraction again because the words were empty. They had no way of guaranteeing anything anymore, and they both knew it.

* * *

**December 17** **th** **, 2018—Darien Gap, Panama**

Sasha was dozing, head resting against the warm and scratchy canopy when they came to retrieve her. In a burst of movement, the flaps were ripped open, two soldiers' boots thundering on the metal truck bed. Danny and Wolf surged as if to stop them, though they were yanked back by their restraints and forced to shout instead. "Where are you taking her?" earning Danny a hit with the butt of a gun. And where she should have been scared, she felt an intense sense of calm, for she had known this was coming.

"It's okay," she told them, as she was untied from the truck and hoisted to her feet. Ignoring Danny's horrified gaze, she smiled softly at him instead. At all of them. "Whatever happens, don't let them win," and with that, she was pulled out of the truck.

Her eyes squinted as they adjusted to the sudden barrage of sunlight, bound feet tripping on the rocks and debris all over the ground, one rolling her ankle in such a way that she winced. Unceremoniously, she was dragged into a neighboring tent and deposited roughly on the ground. Forced to kneel with her hands bound in front, and only then did she begin to feel dread, not for herself, but for him. Her mouth went dry, eyes peering regrettably at the camera that was set up to broadcast.

Hector smiled at her from behind it, and she swallowed.

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán & Darien Gap, Panama**

Tom didn't know why, but he was inexplicably drowning in a pit of anxiety that wound so tightly in his chest, it was hard to breathe. Mexico was laying the mines, everything was proceeding as planned, Cuba was positioning their fleet as agreed, tomorrow anything heading North would arrive, and they would be ready. Still, he paced relentlessly at the Bridge, Slattery, and Green tracking his movements silently with their eyes. Kara shared a look with Mike, one that conveyed she might need to request he go let off steam somewhere else because the vortex of energy exuding from him was permeating the room. He was like a caged animal, and it was putting her on edge.

Mike broke eye contact first, watching instead as Tom twirled the wedding band on his finger—one of his tells. He was about to pull him aside when Burk's voice came over internship comms.

" _CIC, Bridge—we're picking up a broadcast—"_ a hesitation, a deathly pause that rendered the tension so thick, a pin drop could be heard. Mike, Tom, and Kara's eyes simultaneously collided. "It's… Sirs, Ma'am, I think you need to get down here." Burk finally decided upon, and Tom was already gone.

A shiver ran down his spine when he saw her, his feet propelling him unconsciously until he stood directly in front of the screen, jaw going slack.

"Where is this coming from?" Mike demanded, arriving behind Tom. With wide frantic eyes, he looked at the specialist.

"It's being broadcast on the long-range antenna network. We're already running a trace, Sir." Any further questioning was vetoed as her captor started to speak.

" _American's, for too long you have meddled in the affairs of foreign nations. Gone un-punished for your crimes. La Gran Columbia wants you to know that the people of Central and South America will no longer stand for such tyranny from the North."_

They watched as General Martinez stepped front and center, partially obscuring Sasha from view. If Tom had to guess it was being filmed in a tent. There was nothing in the frame except the canvas structure. Nothing that could help discern the location in which she was being held. Sasha remained perfectly stoic, and to his relief, appeared to be unharmed. Her jeans were marred by dirt, and now that he looked closer, dried flora— _the jungle_ , he surmised, confirming his suspicion; they'd gone south.

" _You believe you are just. That the cause for which you fight is noble, but you have been lied to by your leaders, by the man you call your hero. Your fuel treaty was forged by the blood of our brothers and sisters in Panama! By the same agents who assassinated Fernando Asturius! Your leaders have hidden the torture and war crimes committed against Panamanian nationals in the pursuit of power, and today, Tom Chandler_ — _you will answer for those crimes."_

Sasha's eyes tracked Hector's movements as he paced impassioned before the camera, her jaw clenched tight against the wild hammering of her heart. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, drenching her in a cold and panicky sweat, their intention becoming clearer with every second. They didn't just want to execute her; they wanted to quell the American spirit. Kill the hope and belief in their 'hero'… and they were going to use her digressions to do it. Her hands began to shake.

"But unlike our enemy—we will show mercy; you can spare her life. Confess." He commanded the hand behind his back moved to position a gun at her temple. She stilled, refusing to react as the cold metal pressed tightly against her skin. Focused on calming her breathing against the rapidly surging panic. She would not grant them the satisfaction of fear.

In CIC, all eyes were on him. An unmistakable tremor beginning to emanate from his core. His hands gripped the leather padded chair before him tight as a vice, knuckles white with the force. The hull of his beloved ship seemingly closing in like a tomb, as his choice was laid bare before him. Kara's brows were deeply furrowed as she worked to keep the bile down in her throat. As she wondered if the rest of Vulture Team had already been killed, or if Danny was next. If she might be standing in the same spot as the Admiral in but a few short minutes. Forced to execute the man she loved, her eyes began to fill with tears. Mike stepped closer, his mouth lax with disbelief, heart hammering, anger surging, and a deep hatred and helplessness coursed through his veins.

Hector pushed the barrel harder against her skin, causing her head to list left. "You have a choice, Admiral. Confess to your involvement in Panama, and I will spare your wife." Despite herself, she couldn't help but wince at the words, desperately willing Tom not to give in. She looked directly into the camera as if she could somehow communicate to him without words. Urging him to accept it, to remember that the mission had _always_ been bigger than them.

"All you have to do is pick up the radio. Save her life." Hector taunted, cocking the barrel of the revolver and pulling the trigger suddenly. The violent flinch Sasha gave was involuntary, a natural tensing in response to the expected pain, yet it didn't come. "Confess!" Hector demanded, and nausea rolled in her gut. Two things became clear. This was a sick game of Russian Roulette, and Tom was going to cave—she could feel it.

A few stifled gasps swept CIC in response, and Kara lost her battle, hung her head, and looked away because she couldn't stand it. She closed her eyes and prayed in earnest, something she hadn't done in _years_. Mike could visibly see the meltdown, Tom's breath coming in stunted puffs as he clenched his jaw, eyes smoldering with fury as he wished death upon Martinez through the screen. Visualized crushing his windpipe with his bare hands and decimating his corpse until there was nothing left. As he crumbled under the weight of the pain, _the right kind of pain_ , his mind cautioned him. The kind his father warned him about—the kind that lost wars. The kind that could send his resolve toppling. And as he watched Hector cock the gun again, he realized he didn't know how to do this. Not this time.

"Is your war really worth it? Your American pride so great that you'll let her die to cover your crimes?" Hector tormented, and in a split second, she knew she had to take away the choice.

"Whatever you think you're doing—it won't work," she spoke calmly, and Hector faltered, turning his attention from the camera to look at her.

_"Silence,"_

"He won't do it. _"_ She ignored him, raising her head defiantly and squaring her jaw.

And the absolute fury on Tom's face started to give way to despair because he knew what she was doing.

Hector sneered at her, pushing the barrel again and turning back to the camera, "Confess!"

"He's smarter than that. You'll kill me anyway," she poked, and Hector grit his teeth, firing another round of the chamber—another blank. Her lip curled with a smile that was more of a sneer as she stared at the General, making clear that she was going to force him to end this on her terms. She saw his lips twitch, a vein beginning to bulge in his forehead. She turned her gaze back to the camera and spoke.

"все нормально," _It's okay_.

Mike's head snapped away from the screen to look at Tom, hoping that she was giving him something they could use to help her; a location!? But the notion was quickly dispelled. The tears pooling in his friend's eyes were explanation enough. She was saying goodbye.

"Я тебя люблю," _I love you._

Tom's chest spasmed, an audible choking sound escaping through the sheer force of his anguish.

"отпусти меня," _Let me go._

"In English!" Hector exploded, and she lifted her chin again, staring right at him with a defiant sneer, pushing the barrel of the gun until it was centered in her forehead. Her eyes swam with anguished turmoil and rage.

"Go to hell," she spat.

Hector pulled the trigger, but this time she fell to the ground, and the feed went black.

In the moments that followed, there was only stunned and horrified silence. That, and her last words, unrelenting as they rang in his head— _let me go_. There was tinnitus, so loud it drowned everything but the sound of his own blood. Then there was a hand on his shoulder, from Mike. Couldn't comprehend why; he wasn't aware that every ounce of color had drained from his face. Nor that he was unsteady on his feet, or that his body was visibly trembling, and a cold sweat clamming his skin. Oblivious to the tear-stained cheeks of Kara as she neared, expressing something he couldn't discern over the crippling pain and crushing shock. And then his feet were leading him of their own accord, heavy like lead weights as he moved, Mike's hand dropping away and the crew doing their best to pretend they hadn't just witnessed what they'd seen.

Still, there was no sound, no substantial or tangible purchase of thought as he stepped into his stateroom outside of her words.

_It's okay, I love you, let me go._

Didn't even understand that he was vomiting until the third heave, body hunched over the sink with hands shaking. And then he was collapsed, somewhere between the sink and the desk, his back against the cold metal locker, body sinking to the floor. If he was breathing, he didn't know. All he could see, all he could feel, was that she was gone.

And he broke.


	6. Chapter 6

Sasha had flung herself to the ground just as he'd pulled the trigger, noticing the tip of a weapon poke through the tent flap at his back in her peripheral. A split second later, an explosion rocked the camp, streams of bullets and yells erupting around them. Hector cowered reflexively at the sound, expecting debris to rain down, and she seized the distraction as men stormed the tent. Crawled as best she could across the ground while still bound, clumsy and frantic, while Hector shot at the men. Wildly, she scanned for anything to break her bonds, coming up stuck—and she'd almost made it to the edge of the tent when hands yanked her feet back. She yelled and kicked with both legs as hard as she could, her feet hitting something that made a loud cracking sound, a short-lived satisfaction. Hector's enraged hands wrung themselves around her neck, his blood dripping into her face from the broken nose as he sought to squeeze the life out of her.

Sasha struggled, fought with every ounce of strength that she possessed, but the fact remained—he was stronger than her; had at least fifty pounds of muscle over her lithe frame, and she had no leverage to help her escape his grasp. Her vision tunneled, edges turning black. The ringing from the explosion in her ears intensifying until she could no longer hear the sounds of her own violent suffocation. Her face turned red and then purple, her movements becoming less vigorous and then weak until suddenly he was yanked from her body.

"Cooper!?"

The voice floated through the haze. A voice she recognized; she willed her body to move but realized she was winded and couldn't. His weight crushing down on her chest had knocked every piece of air from her lungs. Checking his sights, Danny cleared the tent while Wolf engaged in a fist to fist fight with Martinez that had just ripped straight through the side and into the main camp. He kneeled, checked for a pulse because he didn't see her moving, though her eyes were wide open. Dirt jammed fingers pressing down until they detected the flutters of life. With great relief, he leaned over and slapped her cheek lightly to rouse her.

"Cooper!" he called again, watching as she blinked—the only response she could give. Danny pulled her up into a sitting position, supported her weight with his knee, and cut her restraints as she struggled to force in air. Finally, she gasped, a haggard and labored sound, and Danny grabbed the back of her neck, laughing in triumph, as she clasped at his forearm in shock.

"How!?" a rasp that sounded like music to his ears, and he shook his head a wild grin—blinding exhilaration as adrenaline propelled him to the highest of highs.

"Freaking Pablo, that's how!" he exclaimed.

She made an expression of utter confusion. Who the fuck was Pablo? How the hell did he expect her to know who Pablo was? But her mind immediately moved to more pressing matters. Hastily she scrambled, crawling on hands and knees until she reached the camera. Rapidly, she checked it to see if it was still broadcasting. Turning it over several ways in her hands to inspect it. Danny stilled and frowned in confusion, watching her as if she were insane.

"What are you–" he started, but she cut him off.

"He thinks I'm dead," she muttered franticly, throwing it down once she realized it was useless. There was a bullet hole, and the cable had been ripped clean in the chaos. There was no way of knowing when the broadcast cut out, _none_. She pulled herself roughly to her feet, stumbling slightly, dizzy from the lack of oxygen. Looked around the tent for a radio to broadcast, something with a long-range frequency. She was throwing things haphazardly to the ground as she tore through every box, picked over every surface of supplies—still coming up empty.

"Sasha?"

"I need a radio!" She snapped, and Danny's elation dampened in response to her fixation. "They were broadcasting it. I have to get a message to the James," she implored, her voice hoarse—hadn't seen this panicked state since the last time they were in Panama.

"Okay, we'll find a radio," he agreed, attempting to placate her. Pablo chose that moment to enter the tent, catching the tail end of the conversation. He inclined his head in greeting at the woman before turning back to Danny to shut that train of thought down.

"Sorry, no can do. We don't have much time. Once Tavo finds out we're here, he'll start moving those troops. You radio now we lose our only advantage,"

Sasha visibly slumped, placing her hands on her knees as she hunched over. Her breathing was still elevated and coming unevenly. Had to fight with every ounce of her being not to scream with frustration. Shoulders shaking. A few breathy sobs broke through before she enacted control. Straightening again, she turned away from them, wiping her nose with one hand while the other rested on her hip. She paced, grimacing when she felt herself smear Hector's blood over her skin.

"Fuck!" she yelled. Imaging what was befalling Tom right now—if they'd heard the gunfire and explosion or whether the feed had already been cut.

"I'm sorry," Pablo added in earnest, glancing over at Danny, who now had a tense look on his face.

"What about the Sat phone? We haven't tried it in days," Danny suggested, and Pablo made a confused expression; Danny tipped his head to the side in way of asking.

"You guys don't know?" Pablo questioned, and Sasha whirled around, cheeks wet and a deep angry bruise blossoming upon her neck from Hector's hands.

"Know what?" she demanded vehemently.

Pablo stepped forward, "They hacked your satellites; that's how they got the drop on the fleet in Mayport," he explained, and she made a face of disbelief. Her mouth hanging open as she blinked.

"So there're no comms? Anywhere?" she clarified. Pablo shrugged and shook his head.

"There're no _satellites_. They fell from space the night of the attack."

Sasha looked sharply at Danny; nostrils flared as she shook her head angrily, "No way they pulled this off without people on the inside,"

"They've been kicking our ass down here for months, and now you guys show up? What gives?" Pablo interjected.

Her brow quirked with sarcasm since they'd yet to be formally introduced and addressed him. "Pablo?" he looked like every run of the mill military-type if she'd ever seen one. Clearly American, definitely not his name.

He smirked, shrugging a shoulder with ease, "Guilty. 'Paul Shemanski' doesn't quite have the same street cred down here,"

Sasha made an expression of agreement, while Danny interjected.

"Pablo's D.I.A. He's been in the jungle so long he's practically gone native. We worked joint ops in Brazil and Columbia back in the day." Judging by the reverence in Green's voice, it was clear he respected and trusted the guy, which made him okay in her book. Softening her stance, she inhaled, silently letting him know she appreciated the save—even if he'd put the kibosh on her plan to radio the James.

"Well thank God for D.I.A." extending her hand to him, "Sasha Cooper," Pablo took it and shook it firmly, giving a stiff nod in greeting.

"So what the hell is going on? We've been trying to get the U.S. involved with the resistance for months and get nothing, then suddenly this guy's ugly-ass mug is all over the local news and Mayport's attacked?" he alternated between looking at the two of them.

"Not a coincidence," Danny said, tipping his head to the side.

"Tavo's trying to take the Canal, choke our supply chain, can't do that with a U.S. fleet patrolling the Gulf," Sasha finished for him, "And the bridge? I overheard Troops talking about it while we were being held. He's seriously planning a full-on invasion?" she prompted, Pablo lips quirked in somewhat of an amused smirk causing her to wonder what was funny about _any_ of that.

"You speak Spanish?"

She gave a curious half-smile, responding "Si," to which Pablo chuckled, turning to Danny and gesturing at her.

"And I bet your ass can still barely order a Taco," he quipped, to which Danny laughed, clapping him on the shoulder, that curious half-smile on her lips spreading into a genuine grin as she watched them. "You heard right, Gustavo's amassed a huge army—40,000 troops at least," he paused to let the information sink in before looking at them both with steely determination, "We're gonna blow it up. If you want in, you're in."

_God damn it._

Danny could see the conflict roll across her features, the way she cast her eyes downward to study the ground as she fought with herself. Knowing what needed to be done and doing it were two different things. Her heart was begging her to find a plane and get back to the states as quickly as possible, but their fight was here now. Home would have to wait.

Finally, her eyes searched for Danny, finding him waiting patiently for her agreement, which she gave by way of a tight incline of her head. A gesture he reciprocated.

"We're in," he confirmed resolutely.

Pablo grinned widely and grabbed his shoulder in excitement, "Danny frickin' Green!" still not believing fate had seen fit to give him back a man he'd considered as a best friend before the plague. "Come on. I'll show you the plan."

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán**

There was pain, yes. Blinding, unyielding, and ghastly. Agony so frigid it scolded. It clawed and shredded his insides, ripping him clean in two. It debilitated. Tears could not fall; screams would not pass. Nothing could soothe it, nor distract from it, nor take precedence. There was time which moved with no bearing, could have been hours, minutes, or days as he replayed those horrendous seconds. But more than that, there seethed a deep and consuming hatred. A rage and a violence that had always simmered within. Burgeoned just below the depths of his mantle, hot, thick, and tumultuous for most of his life. Controlled. Only wielded with expert precision when required—like a weapon. Until it had been taunted, tried, and ignited—occasionally jettisoned in eruptions of fury. Fleeting episodes where it had exploded—like killing Shaw. But never once had he _wanted_ to let it loose. Never before had he revered it as his only salvation.

Until now.

With terrifying clarity of focus, Tom committed. This was his purpose now, the sole factor that would help him stand on two feet instead of languishing in torment on the ground. He was going to hunt them until the ends of the Earth, and he was going to make them feel pain as they'd never felt it before.

* * *

Mike didn't think they'd be in this situation again, yet here they were. Holed up in Captain's Quarters in a closed-door crisis meeting. Attempting to process but knowing there wasn't a damn thing any of them could do. Should he check on him? Should he offer the requisite condolences? That pathetically inadequate statement which everyone used ' _I'm sorry for your loss.'_

This wasn't a loss to Tom. A loss was something you grieved and moved on from. This was destruction, and they all knew it. Tom would never move on from this.

Kara's eyes felt stiff and scratchy, the tip of her nose sore from the number of times she'd swiped it. The intense and overwhelming fear that Danny was already gone growing more harrowing with every minute. Would be lying to say she wasn't thinking of sending a team to Panama—though the trace was unsuccessful thanks to their limited capabilities, it had confirmed a general bearing—South. Just as the Admiral had said, and her mind was reeling, tactically running every play in the book yet reaching the same conclusion every time. They were too far for the Helo, a plane would be shot down, and the James couldn't leave the Strait. There was nothing she could do, and the weight wanted to split her in two.

It was up to her now; she was the Captain of this ship. Her crew would look to her for reassurance; they needed hope. Where before the mere presence of Admiral Chandler was enough to breathe life into their wide-eyed and star-struck spirits, there was no way of knowing what he'd do now, how he was going to react. This felt so different from the pain of the virus. It was personal. Violent. _Planned_. It was one human being inflicting misery upon another for pleasure, and that knowledge alone was damning.

Mike's quiet mutter cracked the silence. "I should check on him," and Kara looked up, nodding tersely from her chair. She didn't disagree; as callous as it seemed, it was her duty to know if their CNO was about to go absent without leave. It certainly wasn't out of the realm of possibility given his response to Shaw. Hell, she wouldn't be surprised if he attempted to sequester their Helo to reach land and tear his way through Panama from there. Mike lingered, wasn't ready to see what kind of state Tom was in, but knew ripping the Band-Aid off sooner rather than later would be best.

He didn't get the chance.

There was a brief knock before the door opened—neither of them doing particularly well at hiding their shock. Kara scrambled to her feet, much in the way Mike had as Tom stepped through the door. Softly, he closed it behind him with a resounding 'click' that seemed louder in the silence than it should have. He loomed. The perfect picture of the controlled and stoic Captain of old—save for the murderous hatred in his eyes.

That part was new.

Tom observed them both for a moment, not missing the sympathetic expressions, and his jaw clenched. Biting against the spike of molten rage because he didn't want it. Didn't need sympathy or pity or condolences. Hoped for their sakes, that they didn't say her name, that no one did because he didn't know if he'd be able to dampen the eruption.

His was voice was gruff and unaffected when he informed them, "Mission hasn't changed. We hold the Strait—come find me when Mexico's finished laying the mines."

"Sir," Kara acknowledged with a nod, and he left, just as abruptly as he'd arrived, leaving behind an unsettling tension in his wake. Mike and Kara glanced at each other with trepidation. Where Mike had been concerned before, he was now quietly convinced that his friend had gone off the deep end.

"What do we do?" Kara asked and watched as Mike's brows drew into a saddened state.

"Give him space. And make sure the crew doesn't try to offer any condolences," his tone was terse.

Kara lifted her chin a fraction, "I'll have Burk spread the word," she agreed quietly. "At least we know he's here for the fight," she added, trying to sound hopeful, but it did not elicit the reaction she'd intended.

Mike's lips drew together tightly, and he sounded regretful, "Let's just hope it's the same one," leaving the rest of his fears unspoken.

* * *

**USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

"This is a goddamn cluster fuck!" Reiss threw the offending report down on his desk; his eyes bore at Meylan. "How did they even find out about Panama?"

"Sir, it's likely Kelsi had access to the files and shared that information with Octavio. She joined the White House as Admiral Chandlers' assistant during the operation." Joe answered, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood at attention before the President. In the background, the broadcast was being replayed on every news station left in the country, lighting up the screens in the War Room as personnel watched in disbelief.

"And the accusations of War Crimes? What story am I supposed to spin? If this is true, how do we know Tavo won't just release the evidence for the rest of the world to see? This is a propaganda war as much as a physical one, Admiral—and these god damn reports say nothing!"

Joe clenched his jaw, weighing his next words carefully. "I can't speculate on what happened. I was not a part of the operation—"

"No, I wanna know what you think. You've worked with them closely, seen them in action. In your professional opinion, is it possible that he's covering for her?" Reiss clasped his hands together, leaning forward to scrutinize him.

Joe swallowed, that uncomfortable feeling of being forced between a rock and a hard place settling in the pit of his stomach; surprised, actually, by how much he'd come to respect Chandler. Enough that he felt a sense of duty not to answer truthfully, though ultimately the oaths he'd taken to the United States compelled him to.

"It is possible, that his personal feelings may have clouded his judgment, Sir." He answered regretfully, and Reiss bobbed his head, regarding him for several uncomfortable seconds before leaning back in his chair again. Seemingly satisfied with his answer.

"That's what I thought,"

* * *

**Darién Gap, Panama**

Wolf was locked in a silent battle of wills with Martinez as the General sat bound in the middle of the camp. His men lay dead or captured around him as the rebels and American's pilfered the tents for intel, and the burly man stood guard over him.

Hector watched as the one they called Danny called Sasha over to the tent he'd been using as his quarters.

"Sasha, I found something!"

She crossed the camp, favoring her right foot over the left, grimacing against the sharp pain that emanated whenever she put weight on it. In fact, she could feel the swelling getting worse against the thick leather of her boots.

When she reached his side, he handed a black folder to her, which she wordlessly took, opening it quickly and flicking through the pages. "Some kind of codebook—it's encoded though," she handed it back to him.

"Well, I'm taking it. Maybe they can use it up North."

She nodded; eyes drawn instead to the charter map on the table, squinting she moved closer, moving papers until she had an unobstructed view, "Danny, this is the James!" her voice was breathless and more whispered than intended. Immediately he was at her side again, reading the map.

"They're in the Strait," he confirmed, a reverent look upon his face.

"Jesus, they're sending six ships and another airwing?" she muttered, examining the figures and notations to the south. "Even with Mexico and Cuba, those are tough odds,"

"How long do they have?"

Eyes scanning, she did the crude calculations with her best assumptions—though she was far from being a navigational specialist. "They're slower, and we have no way of knowing how current these positions are, but I'd guess a day maybe two before they reach the Strait?"

Running his tongue over his bottom lip before biting it with his teeth, he nodded, glancing over from his peripheral. "Once we take out the Bridge, we find a way to warn them. Hell, if we can get a plane to Mexico, we can join them."


	7. Chapter 7

Pablo was methodically cleaning his weapon, trying to figure out why it had jammed during the attack. He worked diligently, parts strewn out over the top of a couple stacked supply crates, rag in hand as he wiped at the gunk. Inwardly, he was cursing the hell he'd exiled himself to after the world went to shit.

Finding Danny had prompted some stark self-reflection on just how far he'd succumbed to the 'jungle fever'. When the plague hit, he'd been deployed, and for a few months, he'd denied. Pretended that the US would come for him and take care of him. Just as they always had before. Denial that had slowly died as the world collapsed. Until eventually, he'd decided there was nothing left waiting for him anyway. His family, fractured as they were, had long since tired of his fuckups and on the romantic front? Well, there was nothing but a string of broken one-night stands to his name. In true Pablo style, he'd committed to saying 'fuck it' and went all in. Full native, as Danny put it.

The jungle was all he had.

But it hadn't always been that way and seeing the team work together proved just how much Pablo missed being _'in'_. Having a purpose, a mission, and a country to serve borne of more than mere circumstance.

He noticed Sasha leave a tent and watched as she strode purposefully toward him, clearly on a mission. She wasted no time once there, inclining her head slightly and stepping close so they could speak without being overheard.

"Our contact said you have a plane?"

Pablo nodded, "That's right, with the Narco's—they make a run to Northern Mexico once a fortnight. Next one's in eight hours," he saw the sharp spark of interest cross her features as she implored him with those eyes.

"That's exactly where we need to go,"

Pablo titled his head toward the General, "What about him?" Simultaneously, Sasha and Danny, who'd just approached, glanced across the camp at their prisoner.

"He's coming with us," she deadpanned, and Pablo had to smirk at the audacity of her wanting him to convince the Narcos to smuggle the General of the Gran Columbian Empire North.

"That's bad for business," he warned, tilting his head to stress the point.

"I get it. Tavo's left them alone so far but they have to know they'll be drawn into the fight eventually," she paused, "We can't afford to let him go—can't kill him either, he's too valuable,"

The grimace was regretful on his dirt ridden, bearded face and he cracked his neck—a nervous habit, finding momentary relief as he heard the tension release. Gritting his teeth, he responded, "I can't make any promises, but I'll try,"

Sasha smiled at him then, small and grateful, causing her eyes to soften, "That's all I can ask," she said, before tapping his arm in an affirming gesture and heading back to process intel. Danny watched as Pablo's entire head tracked her departure—already knowing what the next words out of his mouth would be.

"Don't," Danny warned, though the sly grin communicated it was said in good nature.

"What?!" Pablo defended, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"You're about to ask me what your chances are of getting laid,"

He mocked offense, "Well, are you blind?—She's smoking," Pablo countered. Reminded that he'd gone years now, surrounded only by men.

Danny clapped him on the shoulder, wrapping his arm around the back of his neck in a brotherly gesture. "No, but I _am_ married—and she's taken,"

Pablo made a regretful expression, "Girl like that doesn't seem like the type to settle down. And she's not wearing a ring," he argued.

"Just trust me," Danny answered, tucking his chin to peer at his friend with knowing eyes, "you'll see," before hitting him once more on the back and taking his arm away.

"What the hell does that mean?" Pablo called, but Danny ignored him—chuckling instead.

"Nice to see you haven't changed!" he called over his shoulder, already heading back to check some more tents.

* * *

**Five hours later**

"What happened!?" Sasha yelled over the sound of gunfire raining down around them. Danny was struggling under the weight of Wolf's body on his shoulders as he ran him back to the safety of cover.

"Fucking landmine!"

She tried to ignore the stunted howls of pain from her teammate, but the anguish was hard to drown out. They'd just blown the bridge, but there was still the matter of the platoon on their side that currently had them pinned.

"Shit, his tourniquets gone," she heard, and in a split second, she fired wildly, grasping her own from her hip, yelling "Here," as she thrust it at Danny.

Azima sprinted over, drawn by the sounds, and her heart stopped, "Wolf!?" to which he could only grunt in response. Against the surging panic, Azima fired wildly at the enemy, providing cover with Sasha while Danny worked to stem the flow of bleeding.

"Mate, it's no use—" Wolf panted, face ashen and covered in a deathly sheen. His blood flowed freely to the ground, pulsing from the gaping wound in his leg.

"You're gonna be fine,"

"No! You need to get to the plane, warn the James—you'll never make it—"

"Stop! We're not leaving you," Danny countered, pulling the tourniquet as tight as he could, which elicited another loud yell from his friend.

From the ground, through the surge of pain, Wolf heard Azima's voice, "We make it out together," and bit back against the surge. Pablo appeared at his side, bandages in hand, and both men started wrapping the leg. A distant yell from Armando pierced the air, barely providing enough warning before some kind of explosion rocked the ground. Danny and Pablo both dove to cover Wolf, hands upon their own heads as Sasha and Azima were knocked off balance flat to the ground.

Gingerly recovering, Sasha sat up, a fine sheen of vaporized earth floating down from the sky like snow until it covered everything in its path. The ringing in her ears wouldn't stop, but she could make out that Armando had leveled the last of Gustavo's guys with a grenade, and the rebels were now storming the area—finishing anyone left alive on the ground. Sputtering against the dirt in her lungs, she pushed herself up using the butt of her rifle, taking stock to make sure her team was alive.

Stiffly she came to stand watch while Danny, Azima, and Pablo crowded Wolf before hoisting him to his feet, Danny and Pablo doing most of the work to support his weight.

"Get him to the truck, we'll take it as far as we can and carry him the rest of the way," Sasha instructed, oppressively aware of how bad their odds were.

* * *

Danny's muscles ached under the pressure, grime and sweat coating what felt like every surface of his skin, his palms clammy and slipping on Wolf's wrist, causing him to constantly re-adjust. They'd been marching for over two hours, his only mantra to keep putting one foot in front of the other as they set a blistering pace. Pablo pushed the reluctant Martinez forward, seemingly every step of the way, with a barrel pressed at his neck. Directly behind them, Sasha followed, while Azima protected their six.

Slightly winded, Sasha checked her watch—40 minutes left, "How much longer?" she asked.

"Thirty minutes," Pablo answered easily, tracking the markings made on trees that showed him the way.

Sasha glanced back at Danny, a sorry expression on her face because they needed to pick up the pace, and they were all hurting. Wolf's head hung limply, his lips a nasty shade of gray as he floated in the haze of pain and consciousness. Her own foot caused moisture to swell in her eyes for how sharply it protested each step—still, they pushed on. The only thing that mattered was getting to that plane.

"We need to pick it up, 10 minutes is cutting it too close," she warned.

* * *

**USS Nathan James, Straits of Yucatán**

It was a beautiful night, cloudless. The moon shone round and bright against the blackened sky, and a spattering of stars dotted its canvas. It was wrong. His body was propped against the 5-inch, the cool solid metal tangible at his back. With his legs crossed in front and arms mirrored across his chest, Tom tried to focus on anything but his grief. It was hard. Impossible, in the absence of an immediate crisis, and he felt as if he'd been thrown back to the beginning of this nightmare. To that fateful evening when he'd punished himself with the scent of perfume and finally given in to the despair that sought to drown him. Sleep might offer some relief, but the idea of what came before it? Laying alone in the stillness of that stateroom with nothing but guilt and her ghost was oppressive. Instead, he employed every trick in the book to ignore it. To dampen the hollow ache. The blinding poker hot pain but he was failing; felt ready to burst at the seams. Ready to fall to his knees and cry brokenly for some kind of relief. Muffled boots on the deck alerted him to someone's approach—judging by the gait and weight of the footfalls, Mike.

"Still using this bolt hole?"

Tom glanced through his peripheral but gave no response other than that. No matter, Mike figured this visit would be mostly silent when he'd chosen to approach. Truth be told, he needed to clear his own head as much as look out for a friend. His heart ached too, Sasha in some ways had become just as vital to his circle as Tom. More so, in their darkest hours between rebuilding America, dealing with the famine, and carrying the weight of a crew who'd been broken without their Captain. Mike settled beside him, mirroring Tom's stance. It was a long time before either spoke and when Mike did, it caught him off guard.

"Never knew she spoke Russian,"

Tom's brows drew together, confused that of all things—this was the anecdote his counterpart wished to share. Surprised further still by his own choice in response, for at that moment, it dawned on Tom that he was likely the last person left alive that knew.

"Her mother was Russian," the words were quiet, and Mike gave his full attention because he'd expected nothing but stoicism in response. Tom swallowed with some difficulty, a strange sense of honor flooding his heart as he weighed his next thought. "Her name's Aleksandra," and for some inexplicable reason, it felt damn important to him that someone else know so they could remember it too. Someone besides him.

"Aleksandra," Mike repeated, testing the weight of it on his tongue. The corner of his lip tugged up in a smile, "figures," Tom glanced at him, brows drawing together in silent question.

"Always thought 'Sasha' was too simple," Mike elaborated, relieved to see the ghost of a smile pass over his friend's face. Ironically, he'd thought the same too—further compounded once he'd affirmed that _nothing_ about her could be defined as 'simple'. The warmth faded, replaced by something else, and Tom cast his gaze back onto the horizon. Working against the wave as it hit him. Focusing on his hatred, and anger.

Mike looked on as his friend cleared his throat, knew that trick himself like the back of his own hand before Tom quietly spoke again.

"Aleksandra Petrovna Martin,"

It rested between them, and Mike sighed, looking instead to the stars as they lapsed into silence, and somewhere in the back of his mind, though Tom couldn't voice it—he was glad not to be alone. Because he didn't know if he'd even make it to sunrise without her.

* * *

"Ma'am, Captain Aguilar is on Chanel Two,"

Confusion colored Kara's expression, and she made haste in retrieving the radio—unless their calculations had been way off, Tavo's forces shouldn't arrive until late afternoon tomorrow at the earliest. Mostly, she was just terrified that something else was about to go wrong for them all, though what that could be she couldn't fathom.

"This is Commander Green, what can I do for you, Captain?"

" _Commander, I have reports from our base in Isla-Majeures that the American's from Panama are requesting passage to your ship. They say they have vital intel on the fleet headed from Columbia, they will only release it to Admiral Chandler,"_

It was as if a defibrillator had gone off in her chest, cautious hope surging like wildfire. Her mouth worked in a fish-like motion for a few seconds as she breathlessly scrambled to respond appropriately.

"Understood, we'll send our Helo right away—do you know how many?" she added, unable to stop herself.

" _Three and a high-value package—they would disclose nothing more over radio,"_

Kara swallowed, moisture blurring her vision as the relief poured over her. She bit her lip in an effort to enact control, lifting her head to the ceiling as she faced away from her crew and collected herself.

"Thank you, Captain—Nathan James, out," she hooked the radio back in its holster and turned to her OOD. "Get our bird in the air, let's go get our people," she instructed, her eyes caught Burk's who could not suppress the emotion upon his face—the overwhelming ability to breathe again anchored by weighted sadness over the loss of their own.

Stepping forward, until he could be sure that only Kara would hear, he spoke. "High-value package," he paused, watching as she tightened her lips and nodded softly, eyes becoming empathetic and round. No one left behind, that was the rule. Dead or alive. "I'll tell Chandler, he'll wanna be there," she wet her lips, "Ship's yours Commander," before leaving the bridge toward the five-inch.

The sound of their Helo spinning up minutes later compelled action from Mike and Tom, both simultaneously pushing away from their slouched positions primed to dive back into action. Silently they exchanged a look of confusion, another attack? But it couldn't be that, there was no order given for General Quarters. They both fell into step intending to reach the bridge, only to see Kara emerge from the hatch at the base of the deck, entirely too much emotion displayed on her face.

"Vulture Team made it to the base in Mexico, I'm sending the Helo to pick them up," she called out as they met halfway, Tom watched the hesitation and the way her brows drew in sympathy and bit back against the urge to ask her to spit it out, but Mike beat him to the punch.

"Did they confirm?"

A tight nod, "Three inbound," her breath hitched, "one package," she finally said quietly. The twitch of Tom's jaw was the only reaction he gave, that and the clenching of fists. "They'll be here in 30-minutes, Sir. I can clear the bay of all non-essential personnel—if you'd like to be there," she offered respectfully.

Tom's eyes drifted downward, trailing away before he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. He needed to be there, painful as it would be—he needed to be the one.

* * *

Nausea rolled unrelenting in the pit of Tom's stomach as they waited at the edge of the cavernous doors. Mike and Kara flanked him on either side. They heard the drone of its engine and whipping blades long before the blinking red light lit up the horizon. The anticipation and dread growing tenfold with every second as he desperately tried to prepare himself, as if that were even possible.

As soon as Sasha could see them from the Helo, her heart fell. To put it mildly, he looked as if he were teetering on the edge of hell, and it confirmed her worst fear that the feed had been cut precisely at the wrong moment. Danny shifted in his seat, unable to stop the moisture that had pooled at the sight of Kara, and her eyes softened right before they landed on the hooded figure of Martinez and became cold again.

For a few precarious moments, after their bird landed, no one moved, and Tom had taken instead to staring at the deck, biting back against the bile in his throat. Then the door finally opened, and the breathless, "What the—" beside him from Mike, had him snapping his head up on pure reflex alone. The intensity of relief that hit him could only be compared to hearing Ashley's muffled cry in that stadium. It came at him like a freight train, slamming into him in a way he felt hard-pressed to ever describe. Any adjective, not vibrant enough to give it it's due justice. In one shocked inhale, gone was the poker face, replaced by that of a man who'd believed his soul taken, only to be delivered to the most exquisite, impossible salvation, and as she strode toward him, heart hammering in her chest. Sasha realized she had never seen this much raw emotion unabashed from him in her life.

His arms were crushing when they encircled her, immediately hiding his face in her slender shoulders as she clung to him too. "I'm so sorry," she choked out, whispered directly into his ear as Mike gestured for the few personnel on deck to make themselves very busy at the farthest and most opposite end of the bay. She felt a pat and squeeze on her arm where it wrapped around Tom's shoulders, and she peered up. Caught the head nod from Mike—a silent acknowledgment that he was glad to see her alive before he too moved to give them space. In her peripheral, she saw Kara reach up to touch Danny's face, his hands resting at her hips as they spoke in hushed tones. Words she couldn't hear for the distance they'd respectfully put between them and the bubble they now had.

The few silent breathy sobs that wracked his trembling frame and fanned out over the bare skin at her collarbone drew her attention back immediately. Her right hand clutched the back of his head, and she squeezed tighter still. "It's okay," she whispered. Ignoring the pain in her foot to push herself onto tiptoes, he said nothing, but she felt his fingers curl themselves tightly around her back—biting into the skin. Closing her own eyes against tears, she turned her face, until her nose pressed against the skin of his cheek, felt the moisture at her clavicle as he finally succumbed to the deluge that in some ways, had been brewing for more than a year now. "I'm here, it's okay," she repeated, and he was helpless to do anything but cling to her and wait for a way to breathe.

Danny sniffed and tried to wipe at his face as inconspicuously as possible as duty forced him to put distance between he and his wife again. His expression became serious, and he turned toward the Helo, where Pablo waited patiently with their captor at gunpoint.

"We have Martinez," he told them, and Mike's eyebrows that had first registered with shock drew into a deep and furious scowl.

"I'll summon the Master at Arms," he growled before stalking off to the internship phone to issue the command. Kara slipped into business, albeit with some difficulty as her eyes couldn't stop devouring Danny's form, still not quite believing that he was here, and her nightmare was over—for now at least. Somewhere, through the emotional haze, she remembered, _three and one package,_ and she frowned.

"Wolf and Azima?"

"He stepped on a landmine—they're still at the base, but he's stabilized. They'll be transported back to Key-West by the Marines—Kara. What the hell is going on? We couldn't get through to anyone, Tavo claims he sank the fleet? Command? And Pablo said—" he uttered rapidly, bouncing from one question to the next with no time for her to answer.

"Pablo!?" She interjected with shock, "Pablo, as in the member of your old team?" she clarified hopefully, the rest of his words forgotten in favor of this, and the genuine smile that broke out on his features made her heart soar for him. He nodded, "Yeah, he's here—guarding Martinez,"

"Danny, that's—" she broke off, shaking her head in awe that the man whose picture was still tacked to their fridge was sitting on the deck of her ship. That through all the heartbreak and loss she'd watched him endure, his parents, his friends, his hopes, his faith… finally, _finally_ something had been given back. "I'm so happy for you," she said breathlessly. And she hadn't seen this much unadulterated _life_ from him in years. He gave a watery laugh as he nodded.

"I still can't believe it. He saved our asses, Kara. If he hadn't shown up when he did…" and his eyes drifted over to where Sasha and the Admiral stood in a desperate embrace. Kara followed his gaze, her heart clenching at the sight, could see Tom's shoulders jerking with the force of his quiet sobs.

She turned back to Danny, though his eyes stayed locked on the scene before him. Worry blossoming in his chest. "We thought she was dead," she whispered tightly, the fear still fresh. "They sent out a broadcast and told him to pick between confessing to some kind of war crime or killing his wife. Martinez pulled the trigger point-blank, Danny. We watched her go down— _how_?"

Danny shook his head, reeling with that information, Sasha's frantic behavior now making complete sense, "They separated us, I have no idea what happened…"

Master at Arms, along with several guards, stepped through the hatch at that precise moment and the conversation was tabled in favor of dealing with transferring Martinez.

Sasha watched, lips tight, as she saw the General pushed roughly through the bay and into the belly of the ship. Unconsciously feeling easier now that she was free from his presence at least—and glad Tom had no idea he was even on the Ship because she was sure he'd kill him in this state. She heard him clear his throat—sniff, tendrils of control finally within his grasp and he drew himself away from her neck. Moving instead to cradle her face between his hands and he placed a loving kiss upon her forehead before he finally had the strength to let her go. She wiped at his cheeks; right hand lingering as she looked at him for the first time in two months. The other trailed down the side of his neck until it rested on his bicep. She gave him a small but adoring smile as he looked at her tenderly.

"I missed you," she said simply, continuing before he could answer, "They have six ships and another airwing heading this way, we don't have much time," she added regretfully. Watching as he nodded softly, blinking a few times to clear the last of the glassiness from his eyes. Immediately, he felt cold when she dropped her hands.

"Wardroom," was his gruff response, his voice still sounding foreign to his own ears, for its thick hoarseness. She nodded in agreement and he cleared his throat one more time, before standing tall, headed toward Kara, Danny, and Mike, and a guy he'd never seen before. Sasha falling to step at his side.

"Danny, good to see you," he greeted.

"Admiral," he nodded.

Tom's eyes traveled to the newcomer, silently awaiting an introduction, "This is Pablo, he was with the rebel's, Sir. We used to work joint ops back in the day." Danny elaborated, unable to hide the crooked smirk. Tom's head inclined in acknowledgment as he continued to scrutinize.

"He saved my life," Sasha prompted, knowing it would go along away to smooth whatever suspicions or conceptions he may have based on their prior experiences. That flicker of hurt still burning when the memory of James flittered through her mind. Tom's lips drew down in a modicum of respect and he extended his hand, which Pablo gratefully shook. Despite himself, Pablo couldn't deny that he was intimidated. Never imagined himself standing on the Nathan James, shaking hands with Tom Chandler of all people, that's for damn sure. Danny's comment in the jungle now made complete sense, and whatever idea's he'd had about Sasha, he killed with immediate effect.

"Sir," he said with a nod, the respect drilled into him settling back like a well-worn glove, warming in how familiar it felt. How much like a distant _home_ , a system of behavior he'd once known and thrived within.

"Debrief in the Wardroom, fifteen minutes," Tom commanded.


	8. Chapter 8

Just like that, they were moving again. How many days had it been since she'd slept now? Really slept? Her list of questions was as endless as the days seemed, and as surely as she didn't know where to start, she didn't know which of her needs to prioritize within the fifteen-minutes. A shower sounded incredible, but there was no time to find fresh clothes. Her ankle throbbed incessantly, yet she didn't want to prolong obtaining those answers by missing the debrief in favor of the med-bay. She was hungry, starving actually—but there was no time to request Bacon fix her something—they were long past dinner, closer to midnight than not. And she hadn't meant to, but she audibly winced stepping over the knife's edge. The pain a little too harsh with the attempt to support all her weight on the bum foot and she wavered.

Tom immediately turned with a great deal of concern, stopping in his tracks as he saw her grasp the wall and he was at her side in a second. Hands outstretched.

"What's wrong?"

 _Damn it_. Perhaps the decision was about to be made for her. Sasha waved him off, as much a reaction ingrained into her as avoidance over anything she deemed 'weak'.

"My foot. I'm okay, just a sprain—nothing Doc Rios can't fix with some ice and painkillers," and though she saw his skepticism, she also saw a burst of something else she didn't like. Something that made her stomach drop out because that was the look he threw whenever the dead were named.

Answers—she realized, that's what she wanted first, and so she asked him silently with her eyes. Briefly, he allowed a crewmember to pass, hesitated before she saw his Adam's apple bob as he gulped. His hands, which had still been lingering at her arms, fell back.

"We lost Rios and Granderson in the attack. He saved Andrea, but she's in a coma. The odds aren't good. Kinkaid is dead, and last I heard, DuFine pulled through but she'll be out of commission. Took a bullet to the head." The words were direct but delivered softly.

Sasha slumped, pressing her torso flush against the wall of the p-way and letting it hold much of her weight. Tom moved closer, so she was predominantly obscured from potential view by his body and gave her time to process the news. Her eyes cast off into the distance, mouth open and brows furrowed deeply as the resentment surged. Blinking and reeling, she rubbed a hand over her face. Sniffing where she could feel her nose preparing to run. Bitterly she established eye contact with him, shook her head silently as she saw everything she was suffering echoed there. No need to voice it.

"They have to have people on the inside, Tom—it's the _only_ way—" but she stopped when his jaw clenched.

"Kelsi was in on it. You were right about her. You were _always_ right—" and the regret at the end of his tone was so representative of the frustrations she'd had in struggling to get that girl fired, Sasha had no choice but to scoff in disbelief. The idea that they could have prevented this almost too much to bear.

" _How?"_ Disdain clear as a sunny day.

"She was dating the communications specialist that opened fire in Command, same one who uploaded the virus,"

"Jesus—so it's true? We were hacked?" Confirming part of the intel she'd gathered from both Pablo then Mexico after finally convincing the officers that _yes_ , they were legitimate, and _no_ , they were not working on behalf of the Columbian Empire. A standoff that had been every bit as intense as everything else she'd lived through over the past five days. It seemed Tavo had eyes everywhere.

Tom nodded once, fast and rigid. And abruptly, the moisture threatening to fall was no longer of mourning but boiling, violent fury. Because she fucking _knew it._ Had been warning Reiss for months that there was no way Columbia knew so much about the operation in Panama without someone on the inside. _None_.

"I _told_ him—" she started, voice at least an octave higher and exceedingly tight and completely indigent. Rarely, _rarely_ did she become this infuriated. Annoyed? Angry? Frustrated? Yes, but furious to the point she could feel herself shaking? No.

Tom raised his head, remaining perfectly calm as he cut her off, " _I know_ ," he soothed, and she puckered her lips tight. Swallowing because he was right, she needed to calm down. Five days' sleep deprivation and rage didn't mix well. Never had, and the type of outpouring she could feel coming on wasn't something that could end in 10 minutes.

"The kids?" she asked instead after a moment, back under control.

"In Charleston, with Debbie and Frankie—they're fine,"

"Good." She acknowledged, though her expression was flat and her tone full business, the only way to dampen her fury. She glanced up at him again. His own expression so unaffected and in such stark contrast to the man who just minutes before had so desperately cried into her neck, that it forced her to blink.

This was going to be a long night, and the idea of that shower and sinking into a mattress faded from view. "I need coffee," she told him, decision made to go straight to the wardroom, and Tom didn't miss a beat. He extended his elbow in silence for her to brace against. Gratefully she took it, looping her arm through his as he set a considerably slower pace than usual. Choosing to ignore the desire to carry her every time she winced at a knife's edge; knew she wouldn't want that, and he respected her independence. Even if it was stubborn sometimes.

There was no protest when he pulled out a second chair and silently told her to elevate her foot after falling into one of her own. Nor did she complain that she could 'do it herself' when said coffee found its way to the table, along with a banana—chosen after seeing the way she stared at the fruit bowl like she hadn't eaten in days.

"Thank you,"

Mike entered the room at that moment, and he smiled tight and small upon meeting her eyes. Danny and Pablo were right behind him, with the backpack containing the codebooks they'd stolen and the Columbian attack plan. Kara entered shortly after, along with the XO—ship now under watch of the OOD while Tom loomed over the map, studying it. Didn't need to read Spanish to figure it out. Tactics were tactics, and he'd spent half a lifetime as a student of those.

The meeting had been long; over an hour. The answers mostly accounted for on all sides. What happened in Panama, what had the rebels been seeing from Tavo, how had they escaped, why hadn't they been able to radio. A decision, that after confirming how badly their channels were compromised, was proven as the right one. And when Sasha had finally been expunged of all the intel she could provide, blissfully, she'd been excused with Danny and Pablo to go take care of those other needs. The rest had stayed to work on strategy.

She'd visited Doc Rios' understudy, still green and flustered at being thrust so fully into a position he felt not quite ready for—taken those painkillers and dulled the sharp pain into more of a throb. Next, she'd tackled a shower. Stealing items and toiletries from Tom's duffel that would have to make do in the absence of clean clothes of her own, and it was as she was brushing her teeth that he arrived.

She hovered, rendered mute by the magnitude of raw tension radiating from him, and spat the rest of her toothpaste down the sink. The action of patting her mouth with the small towel, before returning it altogether too precisely to hang off its edge, an attempt to buy time.

Now, in the absence of crisis, work, or taking care of herself—she didn't know what to do. Nor what to say because the way he was watching her, made her want to cry.

 _Sorry_ , wasn't the word.

He felt like an exposed nerve, raw and chaffed to where everything stung—the sheer beauty of her form, clad in his shirt. The softness he knew of her skin. The still damp tendrils of coffee-colored silk clung to her cheeks. And her eyes. _Those eyes_. His jaw tensed until his temples screamed in hope that he'd stop. The slow and steep decline of control now hurtling its path toward the edge of that cliff, and he didn't know whether to shout, cry, or pummel his fists at the wall until his knuckles broke. In the absence of revenge, he didn't know how to make this stop, and the agony for some kind of relief—reprieve, release, had him on his proverbial knees.

Never in her life, had she so longed for a way to take back the past twenty-four hours. So she did the only thing that made sense. His body was too tense as she approached, pushing herself against the hard strength of his chest until her lips were close, so close. Minty cool breath flooding his senses with the smell of his soap and her. The thing he could only ever call Sasha, because there was nothing else quite like it on earth, and it had tormented his dreams for months when she'd left. Or he'd left. Or they'd left… the cycle they couldn't seem to break. Her fingers burned as much as they soothed, broke as much as they healed. She trailed them across his face. His cheeks, his jaw where the hint of stubble roughened his skin. Friction against fingertips ridiculously loud in the room.

Then her lips were upon his, soft, almost shy, or afraid, or something else – until finally, he could temper himself no-more. Tom clutched at her hair, more roughly than intended, drawing her head into a position that suited him best, and crushed his mouth against hers in search of that blessed release. Sasha moaned, matching his passion stroke for stroke. Blindly, he lifted, legs wrapping around his waist until she was pressed against the wall. A moan caught in her throat, and his hands were everywhere, fingers assuring themselves of her worth. Every sound that fell breathless and muffled between their lips reaffirming her vitality. Driving him further and further from proper thought.

They should stop.

They'd talked about this.

No more doing _this_ in the middle of missions and certainly not on the ship.

They'd decided.

They'd agreed.

Somewhere in the aftermath of Greece, and between him coming back and her deploying again and trying to have _them_ all at the same time. Something about professionalism, impartiality, rules, regulations, duty, doing what's right, a higher standard. An attempt to stuff things back into Pandora's box about twenty years too late.

And she tried to pretend she didn't need this as much as he; but the fact remained as her fingers started desperately unbuttoning, and then pushing and pulling the clothing from his body, that she did. She needed this as much as the air they breathed. She needed him.

As the last of their garments came off, the boxers she'd borrowed as shorts, his shirt that she wore, his boots, and his pants, so too left the last chance to stop. And then she was lifted against the wall again, and he thrust into her as deep as was humanly possible. Seeking to be consumed by her as physically as he was emotionally, and the breathless "don't hold back," was all the permission he needed to take that control. To find that relief. Chase the release of potent anger he couldn't seem to relieve.

And when he finally exploded, deep, deep into her body, not long after she all but sobbed his name as she came, it was like the first crack in that dam of need. Enough to lower the pressure, enough to keep from going insane, and his kisses became gradual. More tender, until he was holding her in the bed.

Safe. Secure. Accounted for.

The only things he'd ever _needed_ her to be.

And finally, she found sleep.

* * *

**December 18th, 2018**

Sasha's body felt heavy, every muscle wound tight and achy. She was alone, no idea how long she'd slept, but when her stomach growled, it became apparent that the desire for food had awoken her. For a few moments, she surveyed the room, noting Tom must have found clothes because some black pants and a gray V-neck were neatly folded on the desk. A glance at the clock confirmed she'd find food in the wardroom, and she dressed.

What she hadn't expected was the way Tom paused. Fork hovering somewhere between his mouth and the food when she appeared. Nor the expression, which had morphed from concern to darkness, and then anger, and then back to concern shortly before he let that fork clatter on his plate. The sound was jarring, as much as it was fitting.

"What happened?" he deadpanned.

And she blinked, looking between him and Mike, who was also staring at her in a mixture of shock and distaste. Her entire expression became that of confusion.

"Your neck, Sasha."

Confusion replaced by dawning and then regret. Hadn't even bothered to look in the mirror—and suddenly; she found her eyes seeking a reflective surface to assess the damage for herself. Couldn't be that bad, surely? But judging by the looks on each face, it was.

All the while, that barely tempered coil unleashed itself in Tom's gut and he pushed himself up and away from the table. Looming now with a towering focus.

"I'm fine," she deflected.

"That's not _fine_ ," he bit back, terse, and she had to fight not to roll her eyes. "What happened?" he repeated. Her eyes drifted to Mike, who seemed every bit as keen for an answer, and realized there was little choice. If she didn't explain, he'd just go to Danny. Pablo after that, until someone bent to his will.

"Right after the feed cut. I was trying to get away and—" she trailed off, her head tilting left in a physical gesture that explained the rest. And now that she'd spoken more than two words, noticed how raspy she was.

"And you forgot to mention that part?" he drawled, laced with sarcasm. The look she gave was piercing; a warning. One he fully intended to ignore.

"It slipped my mind," she responded casually, too casually, and she watched as he seethed.

" _Tom_ —" she cautioned, in a tone that implored him to focus on the facts, "Operator's get hurt in the field all the time, it's the job—"

But with biting fury, he cut her off; that look she'd never quite been able to ignore. The one that confronted her with just how much she was loved. "You're not an operator, Sasha—you're my _wife_." He said tightly, in that quiet way that was more damning than any amount of yelling could be. Her stance softened, as his eyes flickered once more to the hand marks around her neck, and he realized if he didn't get the fuck out of there, he was going to drown. If he didn't stop looking, he was going to choke the life out of Martinez—an eye for an eye, or whichever notion suited him best.

In an instant, Tom turned on his heel and left. Mugs on the wall tinkling in the wake of his force and Sasha tucked her chin. Shook her head softly in exasperation. Beside her, Mike quietly endured, and though he understood both sides, on this he agreed with Tom. Wouldn't call himself a Doctor, but his history as a detective and the regretful number of domestic violence cases he'd seen proved time and time again, that the latent effects of near strangulation could quickly turn fatal. Not unlike a concussion. One of those silent, but lesser-known killers.

Professionally speaking she was right, she was still an operator, and these were the hazards they faced, but the problem was, they were human beings, not machines—despite how they acted sometimes.

"Been a rough few days. I gotta tell you, from where we were standing—you were dead. And he had a pretty good idea of where you guys were. That's not a small choice to make. Wasn't so long ago that you were prepared to shoot your way off this ship to get to him," he pointed out gently. Sasha snapped her head up to listen. Because he was right. When Tom was bleeding out, she'd made the decision that nothing would hold her back. And once again, she was fully reminded of _why_ frat rules existed.

Nowhere in her wildest dreams had she pictured this scenario. When toeing the line became leaping clear across it—perplexing, in how it felt like just yesterday as much as a lifetime ago, the rules had seemed frivolous. Not when she'd been so sure they'd never meaningfully cross paths in the field. Not where it mattered. How utterly and completely naïve they had been. It seemed when the stakes were high enough—either of them was subject to waver in conduct. And neither of them had ever managed to jump back behind that line.

"I never meant for any of this, Mike." Sasha whispered, desperate to confide in what she had no business telling Tom—not in his current state of mind. "I was _done_. I wanted out." She swallowed, and Mike's brows drew in sympathy as he quietly listened to her vent, as he'd done so many times before.

"I was gonna tell POTUS after this mission that he could have me based at NORTHCOM or not at all—and now this," and then her eyes became sad, sympathetic and he tensed because somehow he knew they would no longer talk about her, but him. "And Andrea? Mike, I'm so sorry—I—"

He cleared his throat and nodded once curtly, "She'll fight. She's a fighter," taking the hint, moved until she was within reach and settled instead for squeezing his arm in a gesture of solidarity. And though clipped—he attempted a smile.

Changing the subject, he gestured toward her neck, "Make sure you tell Doc about that. Side effects can creep up on you—" a simple yet effective warning, one which she'd heed.

"I will,"

"Good. Not all too interested in planning your funeral again," he said seriously, inclining his brows. Sasha balked, strangely thrust into some sort of reality where it actually sunk in. Because she'd often thought about what Tom would do if she died, how it would affect the kids, but not Mike. Not any of her friends. For that, she felt guilty. That self-reliance and individualism she'd so embodied for most of her life, standing in stark contrast to the vast extended family she found herself in. Something she ought to consider more frequently.

"Hungry?"

And once again, she was reminded of what a good friend Mike could be. The smile this time, came easily, "You have no idea."

It wasn't long before Danny and Pablo found themselves there too, and it was Sasha's turn to be shocked. Gone was the wild man they'd picked up in the Jungle, and before her stood a well-groomed and presentable soldier befitting of the United States.

She made a face and turned her head, playfully mocking, but in good jest. "Where's Rambo?"

And Danny had to bring up a hand fast to catch the spit of his drink because the timing of it was damn near biblical. She couldn't possibly know that he'd spent most of the night after falling into bunks telling him 'Pablo' didn't fit.

"Oh, I'm stealing that—that's it. That's your name man,"

Pablo shook his head, "No way—"

Mike gave a laugh, brash and loud, lifting his head at him. "Rambo—that's good, that's real good," he affirmed, looking between them all to Sasha who was grinning innocently.

"Sorry Rambo, three against one," she shrugged slightly, and he grumbled muttering something under his breath as he poured himself coffee.


	9. Chapter 9

Betrayal

**Noun.**

_The action of betraying one's country, a group, or a person; treachery._

Tom felt like pinning it up on the fucking Plan of the Day for everyone to read, and maybe that's how his knife came to be buried in the hand of Martinez after a fit of rage. Helpless to stop himself after a land battery from Cuba had blown the nose of the James wide open.

And Mike, the good sport that he was, couldn't seem to recall how said knife found its way into the room. Much less into their prisoner's hand. Nor did he recollect seeing any such behavior from his CNO after they'd spent hours interrogating him about Cuba. As far as Mike knew, Martinez arrived that way. Mostly, he couldn't believe their prisoner was stupid enough to start talking about a dress, and how America really shouldn't send spies who are so memorable, and how it was _'such a delicate neck'_. Really, the General was lucky to still be alive at all.

Sasha didn't see it that way. All she saw was full cowboy on steroids moving closer and closer to doing something else he was going to regret—and when that happened, she didn't think she'd get him back. Not this time.

But then she had to remember; she too had been broken—pushed over the edge, changed. Warped by an insane world, endless war, and crushing pressure. Was it even right to expect any of them not to be different? To be irrevocably altered and some of that righteous nobility lost. More and more Sasha questioned if she'd fight so hard for this world if he wasn't in it. And the answer that four years ago would unequivocally have been _'yes'_ , had now become, at best, ' _I don't know'_ and at worst, ' _probably not'_.

Change was inevitable. And the only thing that rang true from the old world was a cautionary statement:

_War is hell._

It had never stopped being true.

You only had to travel the mess deck, overflowed with the injured, and dead laid over the very tables upon which they ate to see it. Only had to watch as Miller held vigil with tears in his eyes, and a hand on the chest of yet another friend who'd perished. You only had to listen to the moans of the burned who suffered because there wasn't enough morphine to go around.

And so, when your reasons for fighting became less about hope, and more about justice for your friends, and your loved ones, and your comrades—it became easier to see how nobility died. How innocence became lost. Hell, it became downright jarring to think you'd ever been disillusioned into believing humans would stop falling prey to the trappings of war. To believe history didn't just repeat, time and time again.

Like this hadn't been the dance for countless millennia.

* * *

**December 19** **th** **, 2018—Naval Station Key West, Florida**

The James had limped into its dry dock in the early hours of dawn. Just shy of 0600. Master Chief arranged transport back to Mayport, which was scheduled to leave at 0900, and the first thing the disjointed members of Vulture Team wanted to do was go check on Wolf.

Azima slept in a chair beside his bed, their hands conjoined as her head laid on his forearm. Sasha smiled at the sight. Had always suspected their feelings ran deep, but they kept it professional on missions. Mostly stuck to flirting at functions, never really outright confirmed, or given it a name. Maybe that would change now. After all, tomorrow wasn't guaranteed.

"How's he doing?" she whispered when Azima stirred, bleary eyes peering up at the sound of the door.

"It was touch and go, but he will pull through. The Doctor's saved his leg, but it will take months of training to regain his strength."

Danny stepped closer, lightly touching Wolf's shoulder—beyond thankful not to have lost another friend, and they sat with Azima for an hour or so before they needed to leave.

* * *

Between status reports, and a railing from the President by way of secure landline, somehow Tom had found ten minutes for himself to place a call. He and Sasha were engaged in a careful dance, which mostly avoided being alone together for the sake of his sanity. Ironic; since he'd spent the past two months willing to give anything to be by her side. But right now? He didn't think he could look at her without feeling like he'd die. There was a rabbit hole, and he was sitting at the bottom. Trying to climb out, and it was hard. So hard.

" _Daddy?"_

A wash of peace settled over him and for a few precious moments, Tom relished in hearing his daughter's voice.

"It's me, Ash. We just got back, I'm in Florida." Though that peace quickly vanished when he registered crying, "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" To say he was terrified was putting it mildly, for he'd taken a call like this before.

" _They killed Sasha,"_ she sobbed, thinking maybe he hadn't seen it yet. That they couldn't get it on the ship, and that's why he hadn't picked up the radio to save her.

The fear settled, replaced by understanding and regret. In the rollercoaster, it slipped his mind that everyone saw that broadcast. It was addressed to America as a whole, not just him. "She's alive, and she's fine, Ash. She's with me."

He heard her sniff, the tears stopped, _"What? But there was a video. They shot her! We all saw it…"_

And he _loathed_ the idea that his kids had lived through that again. Their mother, their grandfather, and now stepmother. They'd already been through enough. "We'll explain as much as much as we can when we get home, but I can't talk about it over the phone, alright?" he said gently, hoping she'd understand. Accept it for what it was.

" _Is she there, can I talk to her?"_

"I'll have her call you; she went to check on someone, but she'll be back soon. Is everything else okay?"

" _It's fine, but we really thought she was dead,"_ she continued, still frantic with fear, and now crying some more, _"I was so worried about you, Dad, and Sam hasn't stopped cry—"_

"Okay, it's okay. Everything's going to be fine—put him on." He heard footfalls, a door opening, and then another and then a yell.

" _Sam, it's Dad, he says Sasha is alive! Come here,"_ and Tom closed his eyes, heart pulled by the normalcy and the sounds of home.

* * *

**USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida—1400 Hours**

It had started with the security guard. The one who'd made little effort to hide his shock when approached. Flanked by both Chandler and Slattery still in blue Digi's, come straight from the ship, to their transport and now here.

Back to command.

And never in her life had she rendered the energetic buzz of a war room silent just by being alive. Russ' jaw went slack. Body paused mid-reach for a Manila folder. Meylan's eyebrows rose clean to the top of his head. An Ensign she'd never met before, Swain, who looked barely more than a kid, failed to hide the _'whoa'_. But it made sense that all eyes were on her. The CNO's wife, big news to most on its own. The one who'd just been executed by the Gran Columbian Empire, live on TV, who was not actually dead. Bigger news still.

They'd probably talk about it for months.

And somewhere from above, up on the walkway—the President stopped. Did a double-take over the absolute stillness and silence before spotting the source, and his nostrils flared.

"You two. My office. Now." He bellowed, and suddenly everyone ducked their heads and got back to work. The business of pretending not to notice as they regretfully stalked to the bunker above.

Before them, he sat. Stewing and chomping at the bit to let loose. She, straight as a rod, a sinking suspicion that finally, _finally,_ it had come back to bite her in the ass. Tom, stoic, defiant, and ready to fight.

"While I'm glad to see you alive, you have left one hell of a shit-show in your wake," Reiss wasted no time and got down to business. "Clearly the statement I was about to issue to the press has changed," he paused and let his droll tone lapse into complete seriousness. "I wanna know about the operation in Panama, and I want the _truth_."

She breathed, ignoring the gush of her blood pumping through veins as it rang in her ears. Accepted that 'the truth' could be hidden no more. She wanted to look at Tom, but she refused. Facing Reiss instead and lifting her chin.

"I did it. I tortured them," she quietly confessed. Lips drawn into a thin line as she struggled to remain detached.

Reiss made a frustrated expression, everything becoming tight. "Who?" he demanded.

"The rebels at the main camp," and she could see the frustration over the vague, half-answers. Hear it when he pressed again,

"Tortured _how?_ "

She blinked, gulped down. Clenched teeth as she fought with herself. Felt Tom simmering beside her and saw the way his fist closed against his desire to step in. "I cut off their hands and feet because I wanted revenge for what they did to the kids. In the villages, Sir." She bit out, and though her voice didn't waver, Tom could hear how it hurt.

Reiss gave a long, slow head shake as he digested it. As she stared at a spot just beyond his shoulder. The only way to maintain control. She heard the shuffle of clothing as Tom shifted, leaning back in the chair. His arms moved until they rested loose, hands moving to spin the band on his finger while he watched. Waited for Reiss to react.

"And the rest of the team?"

Her head shook sharply, "I acted alone, and they don't know." The very least she could do was leave Green out of this. Could barely live with the guilt as it was. If he was dragged back into this _—_ if he lost his family after fighting so hard to save it because of her? No. It wasn't an option.

"What do you suggest I do with you?" he asked bluntly.

Her eyes moved to contact his, unsure as she asked. "Sir?"

"A third of this country still thinks we created the virus! Do you have any idea what kind of morale disaster it will be if this gets out?! If I refute their claims and they come back with a picture!?" he bellowed. To her credit, there was little external reaction to his sudden outburst. The drastic increase in volume. But inwardly, she'd cringed. He was right. "Way I see it, I have no choice but to court-martial you. Get out in front of it." he spat.

And that marked the extent of Tom's rope; he chimed in, effortlessly cool as he lifted his head to stare directly at Reiss. "Then you need to court-martial me too," a gauntlet toss, if she'd ever seen one, but thrown at the President of the United States. Not Peng, nor Tavo, or any of the other enemies they'd faced. The man they ultimately answered to.

"Have you lost your mind?" Reiss asked incredulous.

Yes. Yes, he had. Four years ago now, and he'd never been the same.

"I knew—and I chose not to act on it." He said casually, irrevocably, implicating himself in this mess. Reiss was slack-jawed. Caught somewhere between a mixture of indignation, righteousness, and morbid fascination that he'd so readily stuck to his guns. Not an iota of self-preservation about it. With a scoff, Reiss bobbed his head, caught in a silent pissing contest with the Admiral.

"Well I had my suspicions, but I can't say I thought you'd so willingly confess," a condescending retort laced with sarcasm.

Tom facially shrugged, his lips casting downward, "No point avoiding the inevitable," shot back dryly, the 'sir' notedly missing.

"You know," a brief pause while Reiss squinted; scrutinizing the man whom he could never quite seem to control, "I can see why they follow you. I can." He leaned back in his chair. His elbows resting against the arms with fingers interlaced. "But what I can't figure out, is where the hell you get off thinking I won't do just that!"

A spark of challenge lit in those steely blue eyes, and Tom tilted his head, "You said it yourself; it would be a morale disaster,"

Reiss leaned forward again, quick and intense as he fired back, "So I leave you out of it! Stick to her,"

But it was apparent by the almost amused quirk of Tom's lip that he'd already thought this through. "And I'll issue a statement of culpability and step down—" refusing to yield.

"Tom—" Sasha warned, voice low, but he merely glanced at her quickly, a quiet look to just trust that he knew what he was doing before he continued. "It's your choice, Mr. President. You get to decide." He said easily, quirking his brow and tilting his head, taunting him. "I'm just telling you what I will and won't do." With leisure, Tom moved until he stood, pushing the chair back into place while Reiss found himself rendered mute by his spectacular display of in-sub-ordinance.

"And what I won't do," Tom paused, all trace of that soft swagger gone from his face, "Is let you take out the operator who saw this coming. The only one we can trust to figure out how deep this goes." Replaced instead with unmistakable conviction.

Sasha watched as Reiss stewed silently, the discomfort clear as day, for where Reiss derived power through caustic displays. Tom took it in the quietest of ways. And whenever Tom committed, anyone else had always been hard-pressed to compete.

"If they had any evidence, they wouldn't have needed a confession. And if you hang her out to dry? The country will believe all of it. Assassinating Asturius too, along with whatever else they cook up. And let's not talk about what a morale disaster it would be if people knew you had the choice to take them out, and you said no."

There it was, the final blow, the reminder that they _all_ had blood on their hands.

"I've said it before, and I'll say it again, _Sir_. I stand by my record." Tom let it sit there, tilted his head. Drilled his point home with a simple provoking question.

"Can you say the same?"

Reiss balked; the bravado stripped as he sat in uncomfortable scrutiny under the unyielding gaze of his renegade CNO. And it was clear from his silence that Tom had made himself perfectly clear. Slowly he let his eyes flicker over the President's form, a non-verbal dressing down before he moved to Sasha.

She was trying to remember a time she'd ever been sat in a more awkward position when the heat of his stare compelled her to look up. A barely perceptible head tilt in the door's direction prompted her to move as if on autopilot. Walking through it as he held it open, and she couldn't believe he'd dismissed them both from a meeting with the Commander-in-Chief with such blatant disregard. Much less anything else.

Already, as they stepped out onto the walkway, her expression was morphing. Freed from the stoicism and settled upon a mixture of disbelief and begrudging awe. Even now, he could still surprise her with _'full cowboy'_.

And then he was in front of her, and she was staring at him. Dumfounded with her mouth hanging loose.

"What—"

"He's posturing—" he didn't even let her start before he was brushing the statement off, sweeping it under the rug as if it were nothing.

"Jesus, Tom. He's still the President!" she exclaimed, though careful to keep her tone hushed.

His response was terse, the words pushed out between gritted teeth, "Then he should have acted like one when you spent a year telling him we were under attack!"

Shaking her head, she looked away, composing herself before she turned back to him. "What is going on with you?" she implored quietly, brows betraying her concern. This wasn't like him. Yes, he'd always toed the line. Made decisions when he felt they were for the greater good—a choice they each had. But this was different. There was an edge. A recklessness she'd never felt seeping from his every pore.

" _You,_ Sasha. You're what's wrong with me!" he snapped, furious eyes seething at her. Her eyebrows rose, and she blinked rapidly, drawing her head back a fraction in shock at the bluntness of it. The unexpected stab it sent to her heart. "It wasn't enough to let you die?" he hissed, "Now I have to let you be court-martialed too?" and she winced at the tumultuous emotion displayed in his eyes.

" _Tom—_ "

"I wasn't interested before, and I refuse to do it now. You won't change my mind," jaw set and tightly wound, like at any moment she could push one button and he'd explode. For several seconds she just looked at him, eyes round and regretful, sad—reminded him so damn much of that minefield he had to blink. He softened, right around the time he saw her lip twitch and purse, the way it did whenever something hurt.

"It's not like I don't deserve it," she whispered, left eyebrow quirking—eyes wandering the hallway by way of distraction. Anything really that would stop the images of what she'd done burning her mind. A lone Ensign hesitating at the end of the corridor, unsure whether to walk past them. Jeter looking on with curiosity from below. Meylan, too. In fact, now that she paid attention, there were dozens of eyes on them conspicuously pretending not to look. Probably straining to overhear if she had to venture a guess.

Sasha drew her arms around herself, crossing her elbows and clutching at the sides. Tucking her chin down, she worked hard to suppress it, but the way it sliced was so fresh in the wake of events that she found every tool failing her. And then she felt his touch upon her bicep, warm through the loose fabric of his button-down that she'd borrowed, rolled, and tucked into her jeans, directing her toward him. The hint of vulnerability enough for him to completely temper his frustration, for he could see exactly where this was about to go. Knew she couldn't see it coming. If anything, Sasha was an open book to him now, ever since she'd let him get behind those walls.

"Not here," he instructed softly, and she fell into step, his hand hovering in the small of her back as he walked them toward an adjacent room. With his free arm, he swung the door open and ushered her behind the privacy of frosted glass.

The door had barely clicked closed before she was pacing restlessly. Her back was turned to him as she chewed on her bottom lip. Completely powerless against the encompassing guilt which hadn't surged this heavily in more than a year. She'd thought she was past this, and now she felt foolish for being naïve. For thinking, she deserved to not feel this way after what she'd done. Her fingers worried across her forehead as if the action could physically wipe the memory away. The one who'd sobbed and begged for his life, called for his mother as he'd clutched at the stump, formerly a hand. The moment the absolute horror of what she was doing ripped her from the blackout rage.

After watching her pace in circles, coiling tighter and tighter with every step, he spoke. Soft and gentle.

"Talk to me,"

She turned to face him; her features the perfect picture of anguish and regret that made his heart clench. "How can you—" she broke off, shook her head, lost—eyes trailing as she fought to make sense, "Of all people you know what I did was wrong!" her voice was horribly strangled, pitchy, and tight. _Yes_ , it was. He knew that.

"You made a mistake," he countered gently. This was not the first time they'd had this debate, nor would it be the last—but it had been a while.

She scoffed, her head jerking in disbelief because that was the understatement of the century. "A mistake," she whispered harshly, "Torture is a little more than a mistake, Tom,"

"So everyone else gets a second chance but you?" he prompted quietly, stepping away from the door. Her bottom lip wobbled precariously. His hands were gentle as they cupped her face, "I get grace for Shaw, but you don't deserve any?" and he felt the way she shook under his fingertips.

"Eight people," she hissed. "That's not even close to what I did." He knew. Every sordid detail. And no amount of careful reminding that they weren't innocent men, and the world had been broken seemed to ease her self-loathing and guilt. He'd watched, and soothed, and stayed. Held steadfast for countless hours as she'd cried and made herself sick. Committed when she'd switched from avoiding to begging for court-martial. Stubbornly refused to yield and fought tooth and nail to bring her back instead. To save her.

And that wasn't about to change.

She tried to clear her throat against the all too familiar tightness, as the knot of panic coiled in her chest.

"You're okay," he assured her, drawing her closer still until she was tucked safely under his chin. His hand still cradled her face as the other rubbed on her back, his tenderness feeling undeserved to her soul.

"What if I caused this?" she struggled out, finally shedding light on the fear she'd been burying. How many hours had she spent dwelling on this? Wondering if Tavo's hate for the North stemmed from her actions. If he was there? If he'd been with Vega before starting his own crusade. If what she'd done was the catalyst that led to thousands of deaths… Rios, Alisha… Mike's suffering over Andrea in her current state…

There were no secrets in Panama.

"That's not what happened. You and I both know this is about power and nothing else. A narrative," he reminded, but the beginnings of hyperventilated breaths let him know she was teetering perilously close to a panic attack. "Sash, just breathe. It's okay. You didn't do this, if anything you delayed the inevitable," he could feel her struggling, hear it too. Held her tighter when her weight leaned into him against the way her body wanted to seize.

"I'm right here. I've got you—it'll pass," he told her.

Sasha nodded, jerky, and stiff. The tension released. At the very least, she was hearing him. He drew back as her breathing calmed, and he sought her eyes. Round and childlike when he found them.

"Everything will be okay, all right?" and that was the funny thing about it. He was the only person she'd ever believed when they said that. And for all her independence and ability to fend for herself—sometimes it felt damn good to be human and flawed. To draw strength from someone else when you were burning a depleted wick alone. To be gray, instead of black and white.

" _If you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, I'll be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with you."_

That was the vow he'd given to her. The commitment he'd made.

And it meant more to her than 'for better or worse' ever could.


	10. Chapter 10

**December 19** **th** **, 2018—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida**

It was hours before Mike could break away, and now he sat. Listening to the steady beeps. The incessant drone of the ventilators and wires and machines that kept his girl breathing; but perhaps the part that most shocked was how fragile she looked.

A word he'd never ascribe to Andrea.

He sighed, caressing the skin between his palms gently.

An hour could have passed, maybe two—couldn't say he was keeping track. All he knew was that the sun had slipped below the horizon. The orange striped shadows cast through blinds against the bed had turned silver instead. Moonlight. And he held vigil all the same. Through the indistinct murmur of the TV, and those machines, a soft knock on the door roused him from the trancelike state.

He cleared his throat.

"Come in,"

The rounded handle turned, and he watched as Sasha stepped through, Tom holding the door open for her before closing it softly behind them. She held up a large paper bag with an almost nervous smile; a gesture she hoped would be well received. She'd never been good at this; offering support and platitudes where none could exist. Sasha was a 'fix it' or 'bury it' person, being present in the face of suffering was something she worked hard to do.

"Figured you might be hungry?"

Mike nodded softly, suddenly mute from the lump in his throat. Sasha gave a soft, knowing expression and pulled over a chair. Moved the small vinyl table to the foot of the bed while Tom set both his duffel and her backpack down on the ground. Tom moved toward Andrea and gently rested a hand on her shoulder, whispered, "I'm sorry, Eng," before bringing his hand back. Lingered there while Sasha unpacked the food.

"It's not much, and it's definitely cold," she warned with regret, but none-the-less he appreciated it.

"Better than the crap they serve here," he acknowledged.

She gave a small laugh, one tinged with the sadness that permeated the room. Sat there in silence while he made quick work of devouring the sandwich and Tom stood at her shoulder.

"How's she doing?" Tom asked once he'd finished.

"They thought they saw activity yesterday—but it was just reflexes. No change,"

"It's still early," Sasha offered, needing to say something for his sake. Knew positivity and hope was how he survived. So different from she and Tom; stronger than them. While they were corrupted and moved toward shadow in the face of pain, Mike chose light and it never ceased to amaze her. He looked up at her, nodding gratefully.

"Yup,' he cleared his throat to free the tightness, "Only been a week. Most go two to four before they start waking up." He added, and something about that made her heart clench. She shifted in her seat. Didn't know whether the Doctor's had told him that, or he'd spent hours researching everything he could, but something told her it was the latter.

Mike moved on, changing the subject to safer topics, "You guys get a hotel yet?"

Tom shook his head, arms crossed against his chest, distracted by the small TV which hung on the wall. "No, we just left command and had them drop us here. Gonna go figure that out now," he answered, eyes firmly affixed to the screen.

"You're welcome to stay at my place—plenty of room. Less press too," Mike offered. It hadn't taken more than an hour after the President's address refuting Columbia's claims and condemning their theatrics for reporters to congregate outside base. They were not above following personnel in search of answers.

Sasha turned, wanting to see if Tom agreed, but her expression fell when she registered the look on his face. Eyes transfixed as a news station replayed that footage with the caption _'Staged execution'_ scrolling underneath.

"If it's not too much trouble, I'd prefer it," she answered gratefully, turning back to Mike. Even something as basic as access to a washing machine sounded appealing right now. Mike glanced over to Tom, waiting for his input only to observe the same thing, and left it alone.

"Of course," Mike continued looking back to Sasha. "Room for the kids too if you wanna bring them down for Christmas," Hopeful, if he were honest that she'd agree. He had gifts ready to go, had so been looking forward to seeing them in St. Louis as planned. And if he were honest could do with the distraction, and not being alone.

"They'd love that, I know they were really excited about seeing you," she added. Had hoped the mission in Panama would be done by then and she could join them all too. Tell Tom she was resigning from fieldwork as his 'gift'. Attend the annual ceremony as his wife instead of carefully avoiding him the entire night. All plans that had gone up in flames the second that Columbian airwing lit up the docks.

"Yep," Tom acknowledged, completely distracted.

"You can take my truck. I'm gonna spend the night here—just pick me up in the morning and grab me some fresh clothes?" Mike asked.

"Of course, text him what you need and where I find it. My cell's still in Norfolk." Sasha confirmed.

"Appreciate that,"

"Please, It's the least we can do," she assured, reaching out to squeeze his arm in reassurance.

* * *

Mike's house wasn't far from base—about 15 minutes South, and only blocks from the beach. He'd finally settled again, secured the deed, and paid the taxes off—a system used in lieu of mortgages. Some things would never go back to the Pre-Pandemic status quo. Real estate was just one of them. With so many houses left vacant across the country, people mostly took their pick. Oliver had introduced a scaling tax system to claim deeds, and it had stuck.

His house was a classic mid-century ranch, sprawled out on a great plot of land full of dense palms on a quiet street. It was a little under 3000 square feet, 4 bedrooms and 3 baths, for _'family'_ to visit and room to foster—an idea he and Andrea agreed upon and hoped to pursue post-retirement. The house was clean, renovated within the last decade, with all the modern amenities like an open floor plan and quartz-countered kitchen.

Tom had mumbled something about taking a shower before disappearing into the guest room for most of the night. Barely a word said to her since Reiss. She felt like she was getting whiplash, the hot and cold treatment putting her well and truly on edge. Now she had time to think. He hadn't touched her since the night they'd returned. She'd given him space after their issue at breakfast, bunked in her own cabin, and now she lay next to him in the bed. Hours had passed, both stiff and failing to find sleep in the tense stillness. This invisible line in the sand.

"Are we gonna talk about it?" she whispered into the darkness. This distance, radiating between them, pushing her to the point of crazy. Her fingers ached to touch him, to be held by him—and yet suddenly, she feared his rejection, and it was ridiculous given all they'd been through.

"Sasha," he sighed, his tone imploring her to leave it alone. He didn't want to fight, not tonight. He was tired. So tired. Felt an ache down to his bones that he just couldn't shake.

"This isn't us," she pressed on. "You can barely look at me. You won't talk. You're angry with me—"

"I'm not angry with you,"

"Then tell me what's wrong so we can fix it!" she exclaimed passionately, a little louder than intended.

"I let you die!" Shouted it at her, and he'd shot up from the bed, no longer laying down but twisted toward her with the sheets pooling at his waist. Slowly, she sat up, the ambient light peeking through the curtains just enough to make him out in the dark. Her heart thudded wildly. Couldn't remember the last time he'd outright shouted at her.

Mentally she scrambled, stunned into silence; attempting to know what to say.

"I'm not angry, I'm terrified!" he spat, voice cracked. "You're the love of my life, Sasha! All I had to do was pick up the radio—"

"You made the right choice—" she interjected, the wrong thing for her to say.

"No, I made _your_ choice, and now I know how it feels and _I can't breathe_ ," he was quiet again, but she could see his entire being humming with the effort it took to keep it all at bay. "Don't _ever_ force my hand like that again," and finally she understood.

Her heart broke, like glass it shattered—his words resonating in every way. She'd asked something of him he simply couldn't give. Not again. He'd turned away from Darien, he'd chosen not to escort Rachel to her room, his father had died because of him, and she'd asked him to let her go. In the hellish hours that followed, the only thing he'd known was that he wouldn't be able to live with it anymore. One death too many for his conscience to hold, and he'd been convinced of eating a sidearm—just a matter of timing.

"Tom, I'm so sorry," she breathed.

He did what she hadn't expected. Grabbed her. Silencing the conversation with a searing kiss. She softened, pliable to him as her hands traveled the familiar planes of his back, feeling the taut muscle that rippled and moved as he did. Fingers skirted the hem of his shirt and then under until she could feel the warmth of his flesh. It radiated. His lips moved, trailing tender, feather-light kisses across her jaw and down the column of her still bruised neck, the tenderness drawing moisture behind closed lids. Like the action alone could heal her and make it right.

Wide palms grasped at her thighs, pulling her until she was straddling his lap and then up and under his shirt on her frame. The only thing she wore, and the groan he gave once he'd figured that out, sent tantalizing sensations to her core. She nuzzled his neck, tongue touching his pulse as it thrummed steady and strong. Those hands moved higher still until they cupped her breasts, teasing and sending more jolts. Her heart moved. Thudded in tandem with his climbing higher. She squirmed in his lap, seeking friction.

Pulled away from his throat, took the shirt off, and let it fall somewhere to the floor. Tugged at his until he reciprocated. He lay her down until her back was pressed firmly against the sheets. Mouth replacing hands, tongue expertly teasing. Tasting her silky skin, the scent of whatever soap borrowed filling his nose. She gasped softly, eyes fluttering closed, anticipation hurtling as she felt his fingers lightly pressing a trail downward, goosebumps in their wake. Over prominent hip bones, sensitive and ticklish, eliciting a squirm and breathy laugh. Lower still, until his thumb brushed the bundle of nerves in a way that sent tingles all the way to her chest. He spread the wetness, ignoring his own swelling need. A moan fell from her lips. Her hands moved until one was buried in short hair, deceptively soft. The other grasping at bicep, every incredible movement causing the tendons to flex and swell under her palm. Solid and strong.

He played her expertly, relished in every sound that she made. Every little hitch of her breath. Watched as he brought her closer and closer to ecstasy and then kept her there, just on the edge. His own desire, pressed hard against her thigh, throbbed. The ache for more growing more unbearable by the second as he avoided sinking his fingers into that heat. He'd wait until she couldn't take it anymore. Until the pleasure bordered on pain for how good it felt.

Making her lose control had always been his drug of choice. From the very first moment he'd seen it, he'd been intoxicated. Fascinated by the idea that someone so fiercely untamable could surrender to someone else. To him. It stirred some animalistic part of his brain, one that existed upon baser instincts and felt worthy every time he made her come.

The calloused thumb swirled, and her legs trembled, body tensed. All sense lost as she coiled tighter and tighter and tighter. Skin became flushed and heated where it usually ran cold. And maybe this was the only thing that made sense to him anymore. He wanted this all night—no sleep. He backed off, pressure becoming the barest of touches, as he refused to let her fall—not yet. Pulled her back from the edge and finally, she caved.

Her breath was heavy and her voice low when she begged.

"Please," the need for more, becoming too great. Didn't care if it was fingers, or him—just _more_.

Then his hands were gone, and she let out a sound of frustration. Silenced moments later by his lips, and judging by the shuffling noises, his pants were finally off. He lifted her hips and moved a pillow under them, propping her up and her heart clenched. A fresh flood of wetness between her legs because she knew what this meant, and every time he did _this_ , he took her to places she'd never been.

Not without him.

The familiar and comforting weight of his body on hers was perfectly right. Welcomed. She held her breath, hyper-aware when his swollen tip brushed against her. Teasing that moisture. Her blood rushed in her ears, on a delicious spiral that couldn't be stopped.

" _Tom—_ "

A plea as much as a demand. One he ignored in favor of caressing that beautiful face while he leaned on an elbow. Their eyes locked and he let himself be seen—another unexpected thing which clasped at her heart. Stopped the panted breaths and forced her to hold them as her love burned bright.

She'd almost lost this.

And he silenced those thoughts, the ones he caught in her gaze by slowly pushing home, every nerve on fire as she stretched around him. The moaned exhale he gave imprinted in her mind and danced down her spine. It was sacred, a gift that he only ever gave to her, and when he bottomed out, exerting pressure against her cervix, he touched her soul.

Already she was soaring. He set a methodical pace. One that repeated that pressure and hit every one of her points as he went deep. Used his hands at her hips to guide every stroke as he made slow and exquisite love to her. When he did this, she could feel him in every cell of her body—everything soared and sang. It was torturously good. Incoherent noises were ripped from her throat; the only sound he ever wanted to hear, drawing his focus on giving her more. Taking her higher. Feeling those tremors work their way steadily through her pelvic floor until she was flooding with moisture, tensed all around him, nails biting his skin and falling apart. No inhibitions.

Watching her come so freely and so beautifully overwhelmed, and his climax followed with such force he felt on the verge of tears. It ripped from within, head buried against her neck while the silk of her hair tickled his face. Her hands clutched at his nape as he moaned his release, hips thrusting deep with each pulse. He was still riding that high when he heard her whisper, "I love you," and he moved his arms to encircle her tightly. Rolled to his side so his weight wouldn't crush her and lay entangled that way, still buried deep in his home.

He loved her more than he thought possible, and it was a dangerous thing.

* * *

**December 20** **th** **, 2018—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Mike peered over his cup of coffee across the table at Sasha, who appeared barely awake. Not quite successfully, she stifled another yawn and pushed yet more files into the _'irrelevant'_ pile. She was hunting. Hunting for something she couldn't yet name, nor define, but knew once she found it, would make sense. Would lock into place and fulfill a piece of the puzzle she so desperately sought to complete.

"Late night?" he finally asked casually over the rim of the mug as he sipped. Judging by the carefully concealed smirk, his suspicions were correct, and he made a mental note to buy new sheets once they were gone. Sometimes a washing machine just wasn't enough to expunge a visual he didn't want to have.

"You find anything?" She asked, an easy deflection while he sucked a breath in between teeth.

"Nothing," he confirmed regretfully. She'd hoped—thought his history as a detective might show him something she'd missed. Never hurt to have a second pair of eyes, but alas, they were no closer to figuring out how Kelsi and Octavio met. Nor if they were linked to anyone else in the service.

"Maybe we're going about this wrong way."

Mike had worked with her long enough to recognize that tone, and he squinted as his head tilted left. "What do you have in mind?" he prompted, knowing it was probably out of left field, and most definitely a little risky.

Sasha closed the Manila file and leaned back in the chair, "We bring Martinez here. Let Tavo know that we have him and wait until they flush themselves out."

"Use him as bait?" he clarified, mirroring her position as he thought it through. There's a reason they'd secured him in Key-West and not command. They were operating on the assumption that Columbia had the entire layout. Common sense dictated it since they'd had an agent inside. It was likely they knew every choke point, security protocol, and failsafe. It left them sitting ducks for another attack.

"Essentially." She confirmed with a small incline of her brows.

Mike facially shrugged, "It's not a half-bad idea—" yet Sasha could sense he was holding back.

With a quirk of her head, she prompted him to elaborate, "But?"

His expression cracked into that of an amused smirk.

"I'll let you pitch that to CNO."

She gave a droll look which morphed into begrudged amusement.

"You're so kind."

* * *

Tom didn't have to listen to know he didn't like what he was about to hear. The way she was looking at him was enough, so mostly he focused on replaying last nights' events. Right up to the part where he realized sitting behind his desk with a raging hard-on for her was exactly how he'd ended up in this predicament in the first place.

"You're not saying anything," she finally said, arms crossed, and one hip jutted out as she rested most of her weight on her good foot.

"Almost sounds like something I'd do." He responded. Her surprise was evident, and she threw an amused smirk.

"That's very—progressive of you." Pausing when she chose the word. A little suspicious that the man who in such stark contrast had shoved a knife into the hand of her captor seemed fine with keeping him this close. Or maybe she was looking at this the wrong way… _One problem at a time._ She reminded herself.

Tom leaned back and blew the comment off with a tilt of his head. "It's a solid idea." He confirmed. All calm and collected and cool.

Her brows rose a fraction. "So, you'll take it to POTUS?"

He nodded once, and she let her arms fall to her sides. Walked closer to the desk.

There was a twinkle back in her eye when she replied. The one that came when she was on board with an idea or a plan. "In that case, I need to make some calls—and buy some clothes, and we probably need to look at getting a rental."

Wordlessly, he pulled open his drawer to hand her his cell and bank card. She pocketed them in the only pair of jeans she currently had, along with the three shirts that had made it back from Panama. None of which were high necked, and with the kids due to arrive this evening—that was a must.

There was one silver lining about everything that had transpired. One she'd overlooked until this precise moment, and that's why she rounded his desk. Curiosity colored his features and he swiveled his chair to the left to face her. Struck when she bent down and captured his lips in a loving peck, thumb tracing his cheek as a sweet smile spread across her lips.

"I'll see you at lunch."

And she'd almost straightened when she felt his hand grasp her wrist. His mind had caught up. Realized what she'd done and why and that he could _finally_ stop hiding. Tom drew her back, standing now, and kissed her again. More deeply than she had, open-mouthed with a hint of tongue, but still restrained enough to be appropriate.

"I love you." He simply told her, punctuating it with another kiss, this time on her forehead before he let her go. The giddy smile was hard to suppress, as was the blush. She licked her lips, spurred on by the lopsided grin and warmth in his gaze that she so cherished.

"Love you too. Bye." She responded, forcing herself to leave, catching Russ's eye as she closed the glass door of his office. Russ smiled and nodded at her before returning to reviewing personnel plans, witness to the exchange through the un-frosted panes. And his smile stayed, happy to see a reminder of why they all fought.

For life, love, and liberty.


	11. Chapter 11

Sasha was parked in the lot of a nearby clothes store if—you could call it that. It was closer to a secondhand exchange of sorts. Post-Plague fashion, like many other things, left a lot to be desired. Mayport was still re-developing. Better now that the base was employing so many folks and bringing traffic to the area. The small strip of restaurants and bars catered to its residents, along with a few retail stores, but the amenities were less robust than those in St. Louis. Even Norfolk at this point. Still, she'd found a few workable options that, most importantly, covered her neck.

She keyed the passcode to Tom's phone and scrolled until she found Danny.

It rang only three times before he picked up, _"Admiral."_

"It's me."

There was shuffling, movement, and then silence. She imagined he'd relocated to a more private space.

" _Hey, are you good? I caught the press briefing."_

"Yeah. I'm good. I had to tell Reiss, but he doesn't know you were there. I told him I did it alone, and he didn't question it."

Danny let out the breath he'd been holding. Ever since Kara shared what had transpired after Sasha was taken, it had plagued him, and now they were stateside? Well, he'd seen the video just the same as everyone else. It was everywhere. Danny had never told Kara about Panama. Be it fear that she'd reject him, judge him, or look at him differently—he'd lied. Blamed all of his problems on all the other shit they'd lived through, and he was scared shitless that his decision would come back to bite him in the ass.

" _And he just went with the spin?"_

Sasha didn't need to be there to perceive his skepticism. Could picture the expression in her head. No one on the inside would label Reiss the picture of solidarity when it came to his military.

"Of course not. He threatened to court-martial me, and then Tom basically told him if he did, he'd go to the press with everything. His part in covering, how long we've known Tavo was a threat, and that Reiss turned down the op to take him out."

There was a pause while Danny digested it. _"Wow."_

"Yeah. Anyway—that's not why I called. I have something for you and Rambo. I'm trying to bring Martinez up here, and if POTUS agrees, I need twenty-four-seven coverage. No one in and no one out."

" _You're using him as bait?"_

"Yup, and you know I don't trust anyone here."

" _Alright. We can handle that. Just tell us when and where and we'll be there."_

"Never doubted it. You guys figure out Christmas yet? The kids said Debbie was headed your way?"

She heard the smile and happiness in his voice when he answered. _"Yeah, she just got here with Frankie. He's getting so big I hardly recognize him. Kara said she's almost done signing off on the repairs. She's hoping to catch a ride up on a cargo run tomorrow. What about you? Are the kids coming down?"_

Sasha smiled, "They'll be here tonight. We're staying at Mike's for a while—until we can figure something out."

" _How is he?"_

"He's—coping. Andrea—" she broke off, trying to find a way to describe what it had been like to see her that way. "She's in bad shape. No change since they operated on her."

The silence hung between them. He didn't know what to say in response; Sasha understood that on a deep level because she didn't either. "Anyway, I'll let you know once I find out about our _guest_. I'll see you at the ceremony?"

" _Yeah, we'll be there. I'll catch you later Coop."_

* * *

She hadn't expected Ashley's tears nor the fierce hug from both that evening. An action that confronted her with reality. It hadn't been just Sasha for a long time now. She had two children that she'd spent three years helping to raise in the most heartbreaking of circumstances, and she loved them.

 _Loved_.

An emotion heavier than the care and action toward their well-being and happiness she'd demonstrated. She, who'd lived more than twenty years believing such maternal feelings impossible in the wake of her own shattered childhood, _understood_. An extreme sense of responsibility and fierce protectiveness rose, moving mountains within her, and in the space of seconds, there was an epiphany.

She was different. Changed. Her priorities had shifted, and she'd come dangerously close to losing her family _._

Mike hadn't been able to hide the glassiness as he bore quiet witness from the Kitchen. The four of them stood embraced in his living room. His gaze had drifted to the photograph of his own… lost, gone, missing.

_Dead._

And he was glad, and jealous, and resentful, and relieved all at once that Tom still had that much love in his life.

* * *

**Sunday, December 23** **rd** **, 2018—Naval Station Mayport, Florida**

They were turned out and uniformed and dressed in their best. There'd been speeches, eulogies, and posthumous awards for acts of gallantry. Their ships loomed, still anchored in their spots, scaffolded, and scarred from the acts of terror they'd endured. A befitting backdrop to a dock that bore witness to more than a thousand deaths.

He was getting too good at this, he thought. A singular idea at the forefront of Tom's psyche as he offered his condolences. Performed his duties front and center. Shook hands. Talked about heroes dying for the cause. Gave carefully crafted statements to the press and stood united while Reiss addressed the nation.

But he was running on empty. His heart so heavy, he no longer remembered a time where it wasn't. The weight was an anchor; it dragged him down. But he'd abandoned his crew once before in his own selfish attempt to survive—he'd sworn never to do it again, and so he stood outwardly strong. Gave comforting looks, offered an understanding ear—served as their leader, and lifted them up when he wasn't sure how much more he could take—or give.

Later, after the formal engagements, the prying questions— _'when did you marry your wife?', 'how did you meet?'_ —Tom stared into his glass at the amber liquid that swirled, the different weights of fluid, melting ice vs. whiskey battling in squiggly lines within its confines. He'd changed into some jeans and a black long sleeve which he'd pushed up to his elbows. Looked like a regular man, sat at a bar with a group of people who'd saved the world a few times over at great personal cost.

The owner was a patriot. Drinks on the house, service members, and family _only_ for the entire night. Absolutely, unequivocally no press allowed.

The crew was making good use of it—they needed this. A moment to blow off steam in the five days' reprieve. A chance to decompress and reconnect before committing everything to winning another war. The usual suspects were rowdy, and loud, and drunk. Pablo fit right in. Couldn't believe how good he felt, and with liquid courage, he eyed that beautiful leggy brunette they called Brawler where she stood propped against a pool table. Always did have a thing for women like her. Feisty and deadly. Preferably with the face of an angel.

Debbie was minding kids in a nearby home, along with a few others who didn't frequent bars, and Kara was still shocked by how dramatically her mother had changed. The Pandemic, for some, had almost been _good_. A catalyst for positive change and perspective that may otherwise not have occurred. Danny was here, he was safe—and he'd promised something special for their anniversary night. Something she hoped to receive in the early hours of midnight. So, while her heart ached, in particular for Alisha, she was also overwhelmingly grateful for what she still had. The gift of her husband and son that had been given in her darkest hour.

Now that Tom observed, the immediate grief had eased into more of a celebration of life. Maybe they were all getting too good at this.

Without a flinch, he downed the rest of his drink and inclined his head at the bartender silently. Another round appearing mere seconds later, but before he continued, he frowned. As if a bell had gone off in his head. He scanned the crowd but came up empty. It was crowded, more bodies than seats and probably over fire code, but she was unmistakable, and he'd find her anywhere. There was the immediate spring of worry, one that he curbed and told himself was an overreaction. For all he knew, she could be in the restroom. Gave it ten more minutes before letting that worry set in.

Sasha was usually in the thick of it—either hanging with Danny and Co. or Mike, but now, she was nowhere to be seen.

Come to think of it; she'd been quiet and withdrawn. Remained hidden behind the Ray-ban's he'd packed thinking he might get some beach time—an idea that seemed laughable in hindsight, long after the ceremony. He'd chalked it up to stress, a touch of obvious melancholy—the nation was in mourning after all. But maybe he shouldn't have. Maybe he should have asked instead of assuming she'd been as steadfast as she always was at these events.

From his seat next to Kara, Danny noticed the movement of both Admirals from the bar. Frowned a little as they casually, but not subtly, moved as though looking for someone. Kara caught his distraction, eyes hazy from the one shot too many, and she bit her lip, hiccupping slightly.

"What?"

Her hand was suggestive at his thigh and were it not for curiosity and the hint of concern, he'd be hard-pressed not to capture her mouth in a highly inappropriate way in response.

"I don't know. Something's going on." He mumbled, indicating with his head for her to look.

When they reached the bar's patio, Tom spotted her. Down across the boardwalk and on the beach. The immediate fear settled. The irrational one that panicked and came up with implausible and horrific scenarios but felt very real all the same. Mike briefly touched his shoulder and ducked back inside, and Tom went to her.

It hadn't been a premeditated choice. She'd stepped out for some air, and the sound of the ocean had beckoned her. Once he'd arrived, Tom reached out, his being a knot of worry. Her shoes were off; jeans rolled up past her ankles and feet in the sand where the water lapped. They were buried, every wave sinking her slowly as they drew inland. It was cool out, low-60s, and if Tom considered it cool, that meant she had to be cold. The thin fitted turtleneck couldn't be doing much, even though it was long-sleeved. And her feet? Well, those had to be numb, and judging by the way she recoiled before she relaxed—she hadn't heard his approach.

Heat radiated at her back while his hands settled on both the curve of her hip and her right bicep. Sasha kept her arms crossed, but she leaned into him, the scent of his rarely worn, and carefully conserved cologne so achingly familiar next to the sound of an ocean, it could almost have been twenty years ago. Her eyes squeezed shut against the surge of nostalgia as it tingled in the very tips of her fingers sharply.

Tom let his thumb brush her arm—a comforting gesture. Something was happening for her, something deeper than obvious events and more than anything he wanted to help. His desire to share in her burdens ingrained into his core values just as surely as the duty he upheld.

It mattered to him deeply.

It always had.

He was tender when he asked, "You okay?"

And he'd felt a powerful need to solve when Sasha shook her head, _no_ in response. She wasn't okay, and she didn't want to lie about it this time.

She was drowning.

That drive, which pushed it all down in favor of practicality and running from mission to mission, wasn't enough right now. This was vastly different from the guilt to which she'd succumbed two years ago. This was something she hadn't felt since Kathleen, coupled with the days' events and the epiphany she'd had all culminated into an intense, broken sadness.

One that left her completely exposed and feeling every bit like the 12-year-old girl. But she wasn't 12 anymore. This was thirty years later, and though she reminded herself that—it didn't help. Problem was, she didn't know how to express this or where to start, and her throat was lodged so tight she struggled to speak at all.

Tom waited patiently, his hand moving from her arm to her shoulder, thumb brushing the bump of her spine. Listened as she breathed, and the waves crashed, and the world turned.

"I didn't know he had a daughter," soft and quiet. Almost lost to the night, and if he hadn't been listening so intently, he might have missed it.

Tom knew of Rios' daughter; he'd known for years. After making port in Norfolk, he'd made it a point to personally speak with each crew member regarding their families. Tom had felt it important to hear their accounts firsthand. He believed it right when they had so loyally and blindly put their faith in him to serve the mission.

An unfamiliar ache flared in the center of his heart—In the twenty-two years since they'd met, they had talked about her childhood precisely twice. Once when she'd coldly explained that her father was dead, and her mother estranged, and the second a little over two years ago; when she'd offered that they never reconciled.

Sasha felt him shift behind her until his arm fully encircled her waist, and the other covered her still crossed arms. His warmth was all-encompassing, a physical reminder that she was not alone anymore, despite how keenly she felt it at this moment.

"This is about your Dad?" he asked quietly, his cheek now pressed against the top of her head.

Yes, and no. Though she didn't say that. Had swallowed against the horrible knot instead. Her father wasn't the problem. He'd died, she'd been angry, and then she'd accepted it.

Her mother was.

As Sasha watched that little girl sat in a chair, _alone_ , holding a flag and her Dad's service medal, all she'd been able to see was herself. Twelve, lost, scared, heartbroken, and so terribly lonely, silently waiting for someone to hold her. Someone to tell her it was going to be okay.

It had never come.

And Sasha couldn't believe how much that still hurt. Hated it, in fact. Despised that a ghost could still hold this kind of force over her.

The night she'd discovered her father, her mother had offered no comfort. Left her to go visit a 'friend' after the police had taken his body. Sasha had cried and clung to the old bear he'd won at a state fair when she was younger. The entire night she'd waited for her mom to come home. To tell her it would be alright.

The day of the funeral, she'd left her again. Shortly after his casket was lowered, and the small group of mourners gone. Sasha had sat alone on the church bench, told the priest not to worry because mommy would be back soon. Any moment now… She'd clung to the bear. Waited long enough that the priest had to make a call, and she'd been handed back sometime in the early hours of dawn.

There'd been no explanation, not to her at least. And when the police had left, mommy had only said, _"You're too old to have bears,"_ and thrown him in the dumpster before sending her to bed.

And Sasha had realized that she was on her own.

When she didn't answer, he peered down, seeing how desperately she was trying not to cry. Her jaw was clenched tight, nostrils flared and wobbling as she stared out at the ocean. Tom hadn't seen this kind of raw pain since the fallout of Panama, and after that hellish first month, she'd not actively cried in front of him since. Got emotional sometimes, misty-eyed in the right circumstances. But she was still very much the stiff-upper-lipped Sasha he knew she preferred to be.

"She left me at the church right after the service—" the strain in her voice, the sheer sadness of it—broke his heart. Could feel how his brows knotted empathetically. Her mother left her? She'd spared no specifics about their _'difficult relationship'_ —the exact words she'd used to describe it.

In his wildest dreams, he hadn't imagined _this_ as their story.

"She said she'd be right back, and I waited for _hours…_ she never came—I was all alone—the police took me back, but she never—" she halted. "I don't know _why_ —" Broken questions she'd only ever asked herself clawed at her throat, the ache of them unbearable. The harsh, stabbing nature of abandonment reducing her to a point where all she wanted to do was cry like the broken child she'd been. Her heart yearned for it, eyes burned, felt as if her entire body fought her to do it.

But Sasha refused. Didn't want it.

She loved his kids, yet her own mother didn't want her. Flesh and blood. She didn't want it to matter, but it did. Sometimes the self-affirming mantra _'You didn't need her. You're better off without her. People have shitty childhoods—get over it,'_ didn't work. Had completely avoided this topic in therapy, carefully focusing conversation instead on Panama.

Tom didn't know what to say in response. _'I'm sorry'_ seemed trivial and didn't convey even a fraction of what he felt. The concept was incomprehensible to him. His childhood had been filled with nothing but love—even his perceived difficulties with his father were rooted firmly in the knowledge that he only wanted the best for his son. Tom may have rebelled, felt pressured, or unheard at times, but not for a second did he doubt his father loved him. He moved a hand to rub her back and pressed his lips into her hair, coconut flooding his senses.

"It's okay to cry, Sash." He murmured, and for a second, he thought she might, but then she shook her head sharply and ground her teeth instead until she caught the old filling in her molar. Pain rocketed through the nerve, a welcomed distraction from the agony of her mother's rejection.

She was pulling herself away, not harshly, but purposefully. Digging her feet out of the sand and moving until he had no choice but to let her go or find his shoes and socks drenched. For a moment, he'd almost chosen the latter.

"Let's just go back inside," she said, gathering up her boots and making a beeline for the bar again. Tom hesitated, torn between unease and the relief that she'd at least communicated with him, but if this is what she wanted, he wasn't going to argue.

They paused on the boardwalk, long enough for her to dust off her feet. Put the shoes back on before they re-joined the group. Mike inclined his head when he spotted them, still at the bar minding Tom's abandoned drink. Tom stepped in front, and the crowd of people parted naturally as he led them through, a benefit he supposed of his rank. Mike was accompanied by Russ, who graciously gave up his seat to Sasha once they'd arrived, a gesture she'd typically decline, but her foot throbbed from standing all day.

She acted like she didn't see the silent exchange that occurred between the three men; guess it must really be written on her face, she mused before ignoring it completely and gesturing for the bartender. Her focus was on forgetting, and she was going to find that at the bottom of a bottle. Or try her best to.

By the third round in fifteen minutes, Tom's worry had pretty much engulfed his soul as he watched her stare at that glass like it held answers to questions she couldn't find. She hadn't said a single word, and at some point, Tom made the decision that if this was what she needed, they should probably do it at least in a booth and not sat at the bar. Tom gestured at Mike with his eyes toward one, just unoccupied by Diaz, Kat, and some newer enlisted in favor of a game of pool. Ever perceptive, Mike had understood and moved to nab it before a different group could claim the space.

His voice was a sigh tinged with sadness when he quietly told her, "Come on," and she'd wordlessly picked up her glass.

From her peripheral, she saw Tom go back to the bar. There was a brief conversation before two bottles were produced, and he was coming back over. They made a clink when they hit the table, and something about that was so strangely satisfying to her. Or maybe she was just looking for any distraction from how overwhelming touched she felt that he'd somehow figured out what she needed from him. _Both_ of them.

Abruptly she drowned her remaining whiskey, and before she'd been able to reach, Tom was already unscrewing the cap on one of those bottles and topping her up. Her lip trembled, vision blurring wildly until it was nothing but a jumbled mess of colors. Amber, walnut, black, all swimming. Still, she fought. Bit back on that tooth just to jostle that nerve.

Opposite her, Mike nodded softly, his expression a little pained but not pitying, and he poured some for himself. Tom declined, a small shake of his head and tightening of lips toward Mike when he'd silently tipped the bottle toward the only empty glass which remained.

He was cutting himself off, settled back against the leather-padded bench instead, and crossed his arms. The table was just high enough for him to prop one foot against the opposite side, so he did. Sticking in for the long-haul. Their shoulders touched lightly where he'd strategically sandwiched her between him and the exposed brick wall. Protection—as much as she'd let him provide from prying eyes. Knew if Sasha wanted to leave, she'd tell him so.

In the end, that's what got her. Or so she tried to convince herself. Perhaps the next half of that bottle had helped, the alcohol decimating what little remained of her fight. But mostly, it was the way they so quietly and respectfully sat with her. Mike minding his own business, watching the room and Tom steadfast beside her. Knowing, loyal and silent in his comfort and everything she so desperately loved about him that allowed her to surrender. Silently at first, as she continued to dutifully stare at that glass. Was this number Eight? Nine? She'd lost count, and this didn't include what she'd had before going outside. Figured she'd probably vomit soon.

Tom, who'd been looking but not seeing as he stared at a spot just past Mike's head, noticed the change in his friends expression, which had fallen into something profoundly sad. It prompted him to glance down to Sasha on his left; felt heat behind his own eyes when he saw there were tears streaming silently down her face. That same need to protect meant he couldn't sit passively anymore. Gently he covered her hand with his around the glass and pried it away.

"It's alright," he whispered.

Her eyes squeezed closed, and she took a shuddering breath. Features breaking down just as she pushed her face into his shoulder. Tom shifted until his back was turned to the bar, and she was held securely in his arms. Vaguely registered Mike quietly withdraw to give them space in his peripheral. She made a small noise; one she hadn't been able to stop that shot right to his core. Radiated sadness in his soul, so he placed a kiss at her temple while he grasped the back of her head. "It's okay."

Danny approached Mike once he was clear and away. He'd been watching for a while, nursing his beer and politely continuing with the surrounding conversation, but distracted. Sobered, even. Out of earshot, somewhere close to the restrooms, he leaned against the wall. Every inch of his concern reflected in the Admiral's eyes.

"You know what's going on?"

Mike clenched his jaw and shook his head.

"Hasn't said a word."


	12. Chapter 12

Sasha couldn't remember the last time she'd been this hung-over. Well, she could—but she didn't want to. There'd been that time in Hong Kong at Jesse's penthouse. When _finally_ she'd been able to get through to Chris' phone months after the fact. His voice had told her to leave a message… she missed his voice. It had pretty much gone downhill from there. She'd drunk herself into oblivion while Jesse did the same and woke up the next day and pressed on.

"There's water and Advil on the nightstand—trashcan next to you if you need." She heard beside her.

How did he do that? Know she was awake before she'd even opened her eyes or moved for that matter.

Tom watched as she took his not-so-subtle advice and retrieved them, movements sluggish and careful, probably thanks to the nausea.

"What time is it?" she asked, voice hoarse as she propped herself up against the headboard and clutched the glass.

"A little after eight—"

She didn't respond, took another sip instead and frowned against the way her gut churned. With eyes closed again, she let her head fall back. Thoughts floating and hazy while she connected the dots. Him coaxing her to leave not long after she'd given up trying. Walking back to Mike's—his place was only a fifteen-minute jaunt, and somewhere in that period between leaving the bar and waking up the memories sort of stopped.

He saw her stiffen, and she opened her eyes again—a look of mortification on her face. "Did the kids—" he shook his head, cutting her off.

"They were already asleep by the time we got back. Still are."

He'd propped himself up on one elbow, and only then did she notice how tired he looked, like he hadn't slept at all. Wasn't under the covers with her but resting on top of them. And though he wasn't dressed for the day yet, he'd clearly been awake for some time… Or maybe he really hadn't slept. A regretful expression took over her features, eyes round and honest toward him.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. The frown wasn't what she'd expected.

"For what?" Nor the question.

Was it not obvious? Acting like an out-of-control teen who'd broken into their parent's liquor cabinet was not a good look. Nor did it jive with the image she wanted for herself. The one she convinced herself was important because it personified being strong. Sasha squinted in confusion, her lips quirking in a way that asked if he was being serious, and he sighed a little in response—through his nose.

"You're allowed to feel Sash. You're not perfect." He gently reminded.

How many times had she said this to others? Him, even. Yet still, she hadn't truly accepted it for herself. Not with this subject, at least. Swallowing, she let her eyes trail down and then up again before casting them off to look at the comforter instead. An action that usually meant she wasn't really going to accept or internalize what he was saying but wouldn't argue either. And if everything about her hadn't just started to make so much damn sense, Tom might have been frustrated. Maybe even annoyed that she always seemed to go in circles when it came time to deal with her shit.

But she'd tried.

She'd communicated.

He hadn't had to force it out of her.

That was progress.

The Sasha of old would have bailed completely to go drown her sorrows alone and come back the next day more hidden and polished than ever.

"How come you never told me?" he asked softly.

There was hesitation before she shrugged small. Flutters of her eyelashes as she struggled to really pinpoint why she couldn't talk about it. "I guess I thought if I acted like it didn't matter then it wouldn't?"

And god damn it, she could already feel her throat getting tight again. A flicker of something passed across her face before she wrinkled her nose and shook her head softly. Taking another sip of water to shrug off the way her skin crawled whenever she was exposed like this. Clearly, she had more issues than she'd really been willing to admit. Deep-rooted ones. Likely would never have spoken a word of this to anyone had the world not ended. Sasha had always thrived best in burying her hurt. Problem was, burying didn't work anymore, not with him at least.

Tom's hand came to rest on her thigh through the comforter, and he squeezed gently. A move that was comforting in nature before dropping the subject completely. The redness in her eyes was getting worse, and maybe he was being selfish, but he just didn't think he could take it again less than eight hours later. He was rubbed raw from watching it last night.

The real tears hadn't started until they'd left—which was a good thing, because it had been downright heartbreaking. He'd already been half carrying her when the full meltdown arrived. After twenty minutes of that; stopped somewhere between Mike's and the bar, he'd decided just to pick her up. Bridal style because throwing her over his shoulder would surely end with vomit on his back and he didn't feel like dealing with that. He was also fairly certain she didn't remember that part. Nor when her alcohol loosened lips had outright asked him what was so wrong with her that her own mother didn't love her in between sobs. Lots of _why_ questions. Enough of them that he'd be lying if he said he hadn't choked up.

He was still having a hard time with that.

"You think you can eat? Mike made eggs—" he offered.

"No, I'm okay. Thank you though."

"Alright." He drew his hand away and moved to get off the bed. CNO didn't get the luxury of Christmas eve, not during war anyway. Tom should have been there over an hour ago, but everyone important had seen her tucked into his side when they'd left—he was due a little grace.

"Tom—"

He paused, turning back when she grabbed his forearm. A gesture very unlike her. She looked like she was debating her next words, her whole expression hesitant. Readable and transparent in her uncertainty over what she needed to know.

"Are we okay?" His face must have shown his confusion because she quickly elaborated. "About what happened… with Martinez." She whispered, fearful of the shadow which passed over his features at the mere mention of it.

Tom let his face soften and moved to cup her cheek. Ran his thumb across it as he felt his heart pull. She was so goddamn beautiful, and he wished she could see that.

"We're okay Sash." He reassured.

* * *

"Oh. Hey," Sam called from the sofa. He was playing a video game on an old PlayStation Mike had tracked down as his gift. Given early to make up for them all being busy over the past few days. Immediately he grabbed the remote and turned it down, "Sorry, I didn't know you were still here."

It was a little past mid-day. She still felt like shit, but the immediate nausea had eased enough for her to get up and around.

"Believe it or not, I have the next two days off," she said, raising her brows and tilting her head when he glanced over. A move that stressed how exciting that prospect was. Sam grinned in response, but his attention was quickly drawn back. He was back in the game with intent concentration, but apparently, whatever he'd intended to do, hadn't gone well because he let out a frustrated moan, and the screen read ' _wasted_ '. Sasha sat beside him, drawing the available throw over her legs.

"Where's your sister?"

"She went to hang out with Diaz and Kat… and probably face-time with Justin." The second part of his response said with a conspiratorial tone as if he were revealing a great secret.

Her smile was knowing. "So that's still a thing, huh?"

Sam's eyes got round and big and he nodded exaggeratedly, not hiding that he wasn't a fan of their over the top declarations of love. After letting her smile linger, and her amusement show, Sasha sobered a little.

"I heard about what happened—with that kid at school," she prompted gently, and his demeanor changed. Features shrinking like he was trying to tuck in on himself.

"Ashley said she told you…" he acknowledged.

Sasha nodded in an encouraging manner. "You really wanna move to St. Louis?" She asked as she inhaled. Preparing herself for this conversation. Sam studied her for a moment, before giving a small nod—looking entirely regretful and very guilty. Reaching out, she patted his shoulder gently, didn't want him to feel that way for expressing what he wanted. "It's okay. You don't have to feel bad, Sam. I get it."

After considering her for a moment, his skepticism clear, he decided to just be honest. "It's nothing to do with Dad. I just miss being around my friends there, and it's kind of easier, you know?"

Sasha tilted her head to show she was listening, though maybe not fully understanding.

"How so?" she prompted gently.

"Most kids at that school have parents that served or still do. Everyone expects me to be more like him. Like… smarter than I am or something. No one did that in St. Louis, they really didn't care who I was."

Sasha gave a soft nod, could see how Sam would struggle under that kind of pressure. He was a sweet and sensitive soul, more like Darien, she assumed. Ashley had been the one to inherit her father's tendency to dive headfirst into impassioned decisions. She was not easily steered; entirely stubborn and cared little for others' opinions of her—but at _barely_ seventeen, she still had a long way to go in learning to control those passions, use them for good instead of destruction.

"Well, your Dad and I are gonna need to be here for a while—I was thinking I'd have a chat with him. Steer him in the direction of you going back with Ashely?"

Sam's brows rose hopefully before he seemed to temper that reaction a little. "Really? You don't think he'll be upset?"

"I think he'll understand that it'll be easier for you to be somewhere familiar than in Florida. Especially given the way things are right now. I know I don't like the thought of you being here alone if we both need to leave for a mission—reality is, that's not really our choice anymore. Not when we're at war." She explained.

Sam nodded his understanding, chewed his lip a little. "You think he'll be okay though?"

Sasha smiled reassuringly. "He'll miss you, I will too. It's not ideal. It's not what we want, and you know we both don't agree with some of the changes Oliver made… but if it's good for you, and it makes you happy that's what matters. Plus, you'll be graduating in seven months—you were planning on going to college there anyway, right?" The more she thought about it, the more it made logical sense. Even if she still couldn't mentally grapple with sixteen now being considered an 'adult' by legal definition. Nor wrap her head around the idea that he'd reach that milestone next July.

Sam nodded, "I know. I just don't want him to think it's his fault. I wish Ashley never said that thing about Mom." He admitted, his eyes saddened. Sasha sighed, the damage that fight had done to Tom still ached. Probably always would.

"Me too, Sammy. But he'll be okay, I'll make sure of it."

* * *

**Tuesday, December 25** **th** **, 2018—Slattery Residence, Mayport, Florida**

Mike and the Chandler's were gathered around the table, sufficiently full and engaged in a game of cards when the call had come. Mike couldn't remember the last time he'd been so scared to pick up his phone, knew there could be no other reason for it.

Tom didn't need to ask; the loss of color was enough to clue him in. Sensing the dramatic shift in mood between their Dad, Sasha, and Uncle Mike, Ashley and Sam quieted the banter they'd been having over the last round.

" _This is Mike Slattery,"_

"Sam, Ash—" Tom said, gesturing with his head for them to follow. They did without question, and they all moved into the living room to give Mike space. Sasha hovered next to him, both standing in the threshold waiting… hoping this wasn't the call they'd been silently dreading all week.

" _I'll be right there."_

Sasha sucked on her cheeks, eyes round and worried, and crossed an arm across her stomach, braced her hand against the bicep, as though she were physically trying to prepare herself. A quick glance at Tom showed he was right there with her before Mike stood abruptly.

Turned to them both.

Eyes unmistakably misty.

A slow smile spread over his face.

"She's waking up. There's brain activity."

The relief was night and day. Audible as both she and Tom exhaled in unison. Sasha made a noise akin to a scoff in disbelief, and all the things she thought to say were silenced in favor of embracing him in a fierce hug. A triumphant laugh left Mike's lips; it was a miracle. A goddamn Christmas miracle—and he shook his head and shrunk his head a little into her shoulder. Enjoying the immense joy as it swept over him, blanketing him in a warmth he hadn't really felt for five years.

Not like this.

Rightfully, Mike left for the hospital—would still take a few days for her to fully come around, and there was still the matter of what kind of shape she'd be in when that happened. But he'd walk this path with her—however long it took.

Nothing like a life or death situation to fix your priorities—at least that's what Mike told himself. The first thing he intended to do was tell Andrea exactly what she meant to him. How much he loved her, preferably in the form of a proposal. Maybe seeing his best friend lose it all for that hellish sixteen hours had helped. Hell, maybe the whole thing. If anything, Columbia's attack had solidified one thing: tomorrow wasn't guaranteed, and Mike wanted to live in today. For the first time in a long, _long_ time, he wanted to move forward. And he was ready to do that—with Andrea—preferably for the rest of his life.

He wasn't stuck anymore.

* * *

Tom and Co. had paid a visit to the Green's—a short ten-minute walk South from Mike's, there was a standing invitation. Come any time after five and stay as long as you'd like. Judging by the turnout, it was quite the place to be; they were sprawled in the garden—their home was a little more modest than Mike's but had the benefit of Debbie living next door. Miller and the Burk brothers were already there hanging with Pablo; by the laughs and ruckus, it seemed he had no trouble fitting in.

Ashley mumbled something about texting Kat and Diaz to see if they were planning on coming and excused herself. Sam, who still thought Carlton and Danny were the coolest people to walk the earth went over to sit with the group.

Tom swept a hand down her back, "I'm gonna grab a drink—you want anything?"

"No, I'm okay." In truth, she was still feeling a little green around the gills.

She could hear Frankie giggling at the other end of their yard, Danny pushing him on the swing set he'd built him for Christmas. Sasha walked over, a look of content on her face.

"It came out great," she offered in greeting; he'd been working on it for months in-between missions, more than anything had wanted to make it back in time to assemble it himself and experience first hand his Son's excitement.

Apparently, he'd been so engrossed, Danny hadn't noticed her approach. Something about that warmed her soul, the knowledge that he was present enough to be engaged in this one act completely.

"Hey! I didn't see you come in," he said happily. Looked up and around and spotted Chandler up on the deck talking to Kara. Sasha watched the concern pass over his face before he spoke low. Like they were about to have a secret conversation when really, they weren't—it just seemed like the natural thing to do because he was unsure.

"Is everything okay?"

For a second she was confused until she remembered everyone had still been at that bar—had a vague recollection of standing next to Tom, or maybe being held up by him and Danny being there. When she didn't answer, he elaborated. "At the bar I mean… you were pretty upset—I tried to ask but—" He trailed off, caught somewhere between minding his own business but wanting to know because he cared. "Admiral wouldn't let anyone near you. Slattery either."

There was the barest shake of her head, a soft exhale through her nose—nothing about that surprised her. Tom was… well, he was Tom. Fiercely protective of the things he loved and highly vulnerable over anything that dealt with his family.

She smiled, small and grateful for his concern, and then did something that surprised her. Opened up a little and told the truth. Seemed silly in hindsight to hide when he'd been there with her in Panama at her worst.

"I'll be fine. Rios' daughter got to me—" she broke off and sighed, looked away over to Tom who chose that moment to shift his eyes briefly from Kara toward her. The warmth she found there chased away the chill. "I guess it just caught up to me." She finished, turning her attention back to Danny.

His eyes narrowed in understanding, and then a hint of amusement colored them.

"Well, you need to hurry up and get a phone—cause I have to tell you, calling the Admiral to speak to his wife? That's awkward as hell."

Sasha laughed. She'd known Tom so long the luster of his status had zero effect. It hadn't since they'd crossed that line, but she sometimes forgot how other people saw him. That they couldn't know him the way she did. Didn't know that he was more than anything, a gentle and patient man at his soul. Even all these years later, Danny couldn't shake the air of intimidation he felt around Chandler. Probably good because it led to a healthy respect, and that's how it ought to be—despite being close with his wife.

"I'll pick up a temporary one this week. Reiss approved the op late last night."

Danny pushed Frankie back, bending at the knees to put his weight behind it, and the little boy squealed in delight. With a smirk and quirk of his head, he looked at her.

"Go time."


	13. Chapter 13

**Thursday, January 3** **rd** **, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Pablo sat with his feet propped up against the table which separated he and Martinez, chewing obnoxiously on the delicious smelling burger and fries before him. Hector stared ahead, an unpleasant expression as if he were smelling shit marring his features. Handsome save for the deep bruising of the broken nose he'd earned attempting to choke the life out of Sasha. It had been this way for days now. Hector was losing count, he'd been transferred somewhere—didn't know where because they'd covered him with a hood. No one asked questions, no one spoke, it was just him—the rebel they'd picked up in the jungle, and the American from Panama they called Green, and all they ever did was sit and stare.

Day in and day out, for twelve hours at a time. He was never alone, not even for his twice-daily restroom visit; one of his minders standing watch as he went. It was degrading. Maddening. Hector tensed his jaw, biting down on the irritation that surged as the Gringo slurped on a soda loudly. Felt his nostrils flare at the exaggerated noise of satisfied refreshment Pablo made. The smacking sound of his mouth. They were taunting him. Slowly trying to drive him insane with the silence.

Pablo set the soda down excessively, producing a loud tinny noise that seemed to zing in the uncomfortable room. He made eye contact with Martinez and smiled wide and fake before picking up the burger, chewing loudly with his mouth open on purpose. The rage he could see simmering in the depths of Martinez's dark eyes granted Pablo extreme satisfaction.

In a secure room, adjacent to the holding cell, they observed via video feed. Mike leaned closer to the screen, sneering somewhat as he spoke. "It's startin' to get to him."

Tom moved his torso forward, though he didn't leave his position, leaning half-assed against a control panel with his arms crossed. "What do you think? Three more days until he starts asking questions?" he asked, raising a brow, and looking to his left where Sasha sat.

She glanced at the screen; eyes narrowed with a small pout as she watched. "Sounds about right. We all know he _loves_ to talk." Her tone was droll. It was true. At first, he'd talked non-stop, just not about anything useful. Just him attempting to ruffle feathers and goad Tom into proving his point that they were not so dissimilar in their desire for prosperity. As planned, POTUS issued a statement to the press confirming General Martinez's capture, leaking that he was being _"held in Mayport"_ , and now they were waiting.

Watching.

Sasha inhaled and shifted herself in the chair. The left half of her ass had gone to sleep thirty minutes ago, and the pins and needles had finally reached their peak. "You reviewed the footage from last night?" She asked Mike, who nodded without looking away from the feed.

"No one but Green and your boy Rambo."

Tom frowned in question and glanced toward Sasha then, a vague level of amusement creeping into his expression. _"Rambo?"_ he prompted with a tilt of his head to the left.

Sasha shrugged a little in response, lips quirking down in feigned innocence. "It fits," she merely elaborated, before turning back to the feed. Heard him snort a laugh that tugged her lip into a small smile.

Tom rotated his wrist slightly where his arms remained crossed, and Sasha was about to ask how much time they had left, but a hesitant knock on the door interrupted that thought. A very nervous, star-struck looking Ensign stepped through, Sasha recognized him from the war room, though, she'd never directly interacted with him before.

"Uh, excuse me, sorry for the interruption," he started, addressing both Admirals before directing his gaze toward Sasha. "Mrs. Chandler, the Master Chief sent me to get you."

A shit-eating grin broke out across Mike's face, though with his back turned to the door, Ensign Swain couldn't see it. Tom's lips quirked, and he found himself sucking on his cheeks to stop the smile. Sasha attempted to suppress the blink of surprise and the brow lift, but, judging by the look of horror on Swain's face, she'd been unsuccessful.

"I'm sorry—I thought—" He immediately attempted to correct himself, and she felt bad, so she cut him off.

"It's fine, you can tell Master Chief I'll be there in five minutes," she answered, amusement clear in her tone.

Ensign Swain nodded hastily, "Yes Ma'am." He rustled the papers in his hands, another nervous gesture, "Sirs," he acknowledged before leaving.

The second the door clicked closed, Mike snorted. "Oh I missed working with you guys—never a dull moment." Tom tucked his chin to his chest and barely held onto his own laugh, but the humor was there for all to see.

Sasha stood looking between them, shaking her head slowly at their shameless enjoyment, and got the feeling she was missing an inside joke. Tom caught her eyes, full of that boyish charm she didn't see often enough, and couldn't help her reluctant smile. She rose her brows at him, "You're ridiculous." Turned to Mike and affixed him with the same glare. "Both of you," before crossing her arms.

"Wheels up in forty, _Mrs. Chandler_ —don't be late," Tom quipped with a tilt of his head; the grin still firmly affixed to his lips.

"I'm glad you're enjoying this," she said sarcastically.

"You have no idea," he confirmed readily.

Sasha rolled her eyes as he smiled handsomely at her. "I'll meet you at the airstrip," she said, before heading to the war room.

* * *

Tom was in civilian clothing by the time she rolled up, his duffel in hand with a ball-cap and sunglasses hiding most of his face, save for that damn jawline. They were hitching a ride up to the base in Norfolk on a biweekly supply run, meeting Ashley and Sam there. They'd left yesterday to start the drive up, stopped overnight in Charleston before making the run up the rest of the coast. It was a relative miracle in itself that Tom was able to break away—it was one thing to be CNO, but he was running both branches as they held the line in Mexico. There wasn't a minute of his day that wasn't consumed with some kind of problem that everyone looked to him to solve.

Tom turned as she approached, "All good?"

Sasha nodded, taking the non-verbal invitation he gave by way of an outstretched arm and looped hers around his waist. They walked toward the plane while she remained tucked into his side under his shoulder. "Yeah, Swain cracked the code to those war plans we stole. Should have it decrypted and on your desk in seventy-two hours."

Tom didn't respond verbally, but she felt him nod. Guided her up the ramp with a hand in the small of her back until they settled on the bench next to some crates of cargo. Sasha studied him as he pushed his back against the hull of the plane. He hadn't taken off the sunglasses or the cap—usually a sign that he was lost somewhere in his head. Tom stretched his legs out before him, crossing one ankle over the other, and did the same with his arms. Listening absently to the final checklist of the pilots before the sound of whirring gears and hydraulics indicated the door was being closed. They started to taxi, and he let his head fall back, the jostling movement lulling and calling him into the sleep he needed to get. The sleep that, if he were honest, had been eluding him for months now.

A tentative pressure on his thigh caught his attention. Her hand and he rolled his head left to show he was listening.

"We're doing the right thing," she said quietly.

Tom's jaw moved in that way it did when he didn't necessarily believe but had no other choice but to agree and accept. To admit that logically, whatever they were doing was for the greater good—whether he felt it personally or not.

When he didn't respond, she spoke again. "Tom, I need you to say it."

Felt a flare of anger that she knew him so well that he couldn't even hide in his own head without her knowing exactly what, and why. At least when it came to this. His kids. It tempered quickly. At the same time, it meant more to him than he could convey, and this was exactly why he was better when she was around.

"I don't like it."

The hand on his leg squeezed, "I don't like it either. But we'll figure this out, alright? It's just temporary. It's safer, he'll be happier… we're working fourteen, fifteen-hour days… that's not fair to him."

Tom dropped his chin, moving it back to center. Squeezed his eyes closed, which she could see by the furrow of his brows. "I know." He didn't finish his sentence, leaving the rest unsaid. The guilt. Always guilt. Sasha reached out and palmed his jaw, stroking a thumb over his cheek right next to his ear, her fingers touching the hair at his nape.

"Don't play the blame game—not with this. Okay? I made a promise," she said firmly, and he turned his head back. Could tell he was looking at her, even without being able to see his eyes. Under her thumb, she felt the muscle of his jaw flex before he turned back to stare at the opposite side of the hull.

* * *

It was a little surreal stepping back into their home after being gone for almost three months, especially amid such turmoil. It was just for a weekend to pack not only Sam's, but their essential belongings, and then they would all go their separate ways. The house was cold. Too cold. Sasha had almost forgotten what true winter was like. She shivered in place while waiting for the heat to kick on.

All was just as she remembered, his briefcase on their kitchen counter, her blanket on their sofa, the coffee table still a little askew where she knew he'd put his feet on it—despite her many protests. And Sasha felt an intense pang of longing for those plans she'd made. The ones to come _home_. Greater still when she reached their bedroom and noticed that he'd moved the picture of them from the living room to his bedside table. Sasha went to their closet, grabbing an oversized sweater to throw over her long-sleeve before moving to her side of the bed to retrieve her cell.

"Jesus," she muttered under her breath just as Tom walked into their room.

"What?"

Sasha looked up, caught a little off guard as the phone continued to vibrate in a near-constant manner while it caught up with all the alerts she'd missed. Voicemail box full, 173 missed calls, hundreds of text messages, all wanting the same thing.

"Press got hold of my number." Her answer was dismissal, an effort to portray that this new adjustment wasn't so disconcerting for someone who'd live in shadow for so long. In truth, Sasha was still getting used to the double-takes and blatant stares. And still dealing with the intense preoccupation with uncovering her background. Apparently, there was even a conspiracy floating that she was a Russian spy sent to infiltrate the military by honey-trapping the Admiral—a theory that particularly rubbed Tom the wrong way. Danny hadn't been immune; they'd finally followed enough leads to uncover his marriage, though the coverage was far more favorable. Something about love in the darkest of times between a hero and one of the vaccine-six… Another thing that lit a fire under Tom's ass. She'd find it funny if it didn't offend his values as much.

Noticing the stark change in his demeanor, Sasha set it down. "It's fine. I'll just change it," and she gave him a reassuring smile. Pushing herself up from the bed, she came to stand before him. Both hands on his chest, while he settled his on her hips.

"We still have some time before the kids get here…" pushed herself onto tiptoes as she saw the warmth creeping back into his eyes, satisfied that her plan to distract would work. She feathered her lips against his, running her hands to his shoulders and then to encircle his biceps, too big for her to span even half their circumference. "I'm cold. You should warm me up," she whispered.

Tom ran his fingers under the hem of her shirts until they touched the skin of her stomach. "Yeah?"

A smile broke out on her lips, one he felt against his as she hovered there, their noses brushing. "Yeah," she breathed, "Mike's snoring didn't really do it for me." Tom gave a puff of laughter that caused the hair framing her face to fan out. He did not disagree, though he let his answer be a deepening of the barely-there kiss as he backed them slowly toward their bed.

Sasha moved a hand to run her fingers through his hair, pulling him deeper. Made a small humming noise in the back of her throat before breaking away for a moment. "Maybe you can do that thing…" she murmured, heat pooling in her belly as he unzipped her pants and let his hand touch her there. His blood rushed as he heard the soft gasp in his ear.

"What thing?" he mumbled, capturing her mouth again, hungrier still as he felt her arousal. They were at the bed when he let her lips go, looked down at her flushed cheeks and heavily lidded eyes. Ridiculously helpless against how much he loved her.

"With the pillow."

Tom smirked, knowing that got her off differently. Intensely. It always had. His answer clear by the way he pushed her into their sheets.

* * *

After, they lay sated, and in Sasha's case, warm, entangled together in their bed. More comfortable than she remembered it being. Tom's fingers played absently with her hair, roughing the texture between the pad of his thumb and his forefinger while she lay with her head on his chest. Listening to his steady heartbeat and feeling the rise and fall of his breaths gnawed at her until she found the compulsion to tell him too overwhelming to ignore any longer.

"Tom?" It was quiet, almost hesitant.

The fingers dropped her hair in favor of trailing through it by her temple instead. "Yeah baby?"

Her heart fluttered as it always did when he called her that. Infrequently, but always doing something inside that felt like love when he did. "I was done… I've had the paperwork to change my name sitting in my drawer for months now. I was gonna file it after Panama. No matter what happens, I need you to know that I chose you."

She felt the way his breathing became shallow as the precedence of what she was saying sunk in. As he digested it. The scratchy, icy tendrils of fear erupted first in the pit of his stomach until they enveloped his heart in an unrelenting grip, in the same manner as when Martinez first pulled that trigger. His synapses firing off warning, after warning, after warning in an attempt to elicit a flight response—to protect himself from the danger.

_'No matter what happens.'_

Tom moved slow, until he lay face to face with her, his hands clasping her head so she couldn't look away, even if she'd wanted to. "Losing you is not an option Sasha. I'm not doing that again." He warned, implications extremely clear.

Her expression became trepidatious, "Okay," she whispered gently. A cop-out she knew, but a wise one because she didn't want to fight. Not with him. Not anymore, and not over this. It was clear that some kind of line had been crossed in his mind and that thought terrified her. Tom when fixated was a force that couldn't be stopped. Not by her, not by anyone. Only he could make that choice. She just needed to find a way to get him to make it.

Mission always came first; she knew that. But it was clear they weren't on the same one anymore, and she needed to get him back.

* * *

**Sunday, January 6** **th** **, 2019—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida**

Andrea was groggy, disoriented still from the effects of her injuries and subsequent coma, but coming around better every day. The ache of laying for such an extended period was maddening and dulled little by the morphine drip. Her muscles were weak, too weak. Couldn't walk, Doctor's said it would take her months to re-learn. Her dexterity was compromised. Even the simple act of using a spoon to eat the jello and soup—the only things she could stomach, was as arduous as scaling a mountain. She was angry. Tired. Resentful. Her memory full of the bullets that had ripped straight through Rios. Of her red handprint against Mike's face. A deep vitriol that screamed from within; _have I not sacrificed enough?_ Losing a husband, a daughter. Had she not paid the price? She stared as if into space. Lost somewhere in a world that was dark, cold, and bereft.

It had been the same for days, ever since she awoke. Mike came every day—talked to her, read pages from the book she'd been consuming before the attack, held her hand. Told her he loved her, and he wasn't going anywhere, that she'd be okay, and all she could do was lay in broken silence. There was a shrink. They came every day too; when he wasn't there. Attempted to get her to talk, prescribed meds, yet still, she remained catatonic.

" _Any change?"_

Mike scrubbed a hand down his face as he leaned against the wall. Straightened and feigned composure as an errant nurse shuffled down the hall. When she was gone, he slumped again.

"Nothing, I don't even know if she can hear me."

Tom sighed a regretful breath, _"She can hear you. Just needs time."_

Mike wanted to scoff, but something in Tom's tone stopped him. "You say that like it's a fact." Mike felt the hesitation before his next response, listened in the beat of silence for an explanation.

" _There was a breakdown... varying degrees for about a month, but at its worst? She spent days doing nothing stuck in bed. Couldn't eat, couldn't move, couldn't speak…"_

Mike sobered then, "I had no idea."

" _No one does, and I need you to keep it that way. I'm only telling you so you know I'm not blowing smoke up your ass. She can hear you, she needs you—she just can't function right now."_

"Even with Christine it didn't get this bad, she still talked. Never seen anything like this Tom."

" _I get it—you feel helpless."_

Mike bared his teeth slightly as he cleared his throat, attempted to clear his mind. Get his pity party over and done with so he could go back to supporting Andrea as best he could. "Yep. Listen, I'm um, I'm gonna head back in—appreciate the call," he said, voice gruff in that way that let Tom know he was done.

" _Anytime, Mike. You know that."_


	14. Chapter 14

**Monday, January 7** **th** **, 2019—Florida Rental, Mayport, Florida**

Sasha cursed under her breath as a box full of silverware toppled off the counter and spilled on the ground loudly. In her haste, and with their new kitchen being unfamiliar to her muscle memory, she'd clipped it on her way to salvage her burning bread. Burning in a toaster oven that was apparently a little overpowered compared to their one back in Norfolk.

" _Fuck!"_ she finally exclaimed when the shrill noise of the smoke detector wailed loudly, and she pulled the blackened bread out haphazardly, hissing when it burned the tips of her fingers.

Tom might have been concerned had he not smelled what was happening, nor recognized the sounds of Sasha attempting to kitchen, but he did, and so he rounded the corner casually. Reaching up to shut off the alarm while she threw the charred remains of her food in the trash.

"This is going well." His tone glib.

Sasha glared up at him, "Shut up." Tom schooled his features into a small smirk and wordlessly stepped forward to help her pick up, but the mirth still shone in his eyes when he placed the box back on the counter.

"Would you like me to make you some breakfast?" he offered more diplomatically, yet still teasing. Sasha sucked on her cheeks in an effort to remain unamused, but she'd never been able to withstand that particularly charming look he tended to give whenever he was amused.

"I know how to cook, Tom," she defended, raising her brows at him.

"I can see that," he drawled without missing a beat, and the grin was spreading into a full-fledged smile. Tom moved forward, grasping the coffee she'd made for him, ring catching the china with a soft clink, and used his other to pull her closer. "Morning," he mumbled against her lips.

Sasha hummed in acknowledgment, "I'll get something at work, I need to go over the intel from Swain anyway, and we're kind of late. Reiss will want a briefing, you're sure you can't convince him to go back to St. Louis?" and Tom smiled again at the pleading in her tone that she hadn't bothered to hide.

"Tried and failed several times." Tom sipped and put the mug down again while she clutched at hers, resting herself against the counter. "You look pretty," he told her. Been a while since he'd seen her dressed up in her office clothes, months actually.

Sasha wrinkled her nose, "Mmhm, you're cute," she deflected.

Tom quirked his head, "And you can't take a compliment."

The phone in her pocket vibrated, interrupting her response, and killing the light banter. With a sigh, Sasha set down her mug so she could retrieve it. Briefly, she checked the ID before answering, making sure she even wanted to take the call.

"Mike," she acknowledged.

" _Think I've found something on the feed, you're gonna wanna see this."_

Sasha straightened, and the last of Tom's softness evaporated as he waited to find out why.

"On my way, give me twenty."

Sasha hung up and addressed him, "Found something on the video feed," she said with a tilt of her head. That was too good to turn up, and Tom quickly downed the rest of his coffee in three large gulps.

"I'll drive."

* * *

"Right… here," Mike said, stopping the video playback. Sasha squinted and moved closer, frowning somewhat. She glanced at him silently from her peripheral, gave an expression which asked him to elaborate. "I almost missed it too, but it's a different guy, same name tag."

Tom leaned closer too, comparing the two stills of the Janitor who cleaned over-night. It was hard to tell; they were a close physical match, and the cap hid most of the face, but the second guy was shorter by about two inches. Could tell by the signage in the corridor relative to his position, and the uniforms most definitely both read _'Reyes'._

Tom clapped Mike on the shoulder, " _Outstanding._ "

A slow smile spread across Sasha's face, "Once a cop…" she started, trailing off because they all knew the saying. Mike grinned back, an unmistakable look in his eye that communicated what they all knew. It was time to go hunt.

* * *

The war room bustled, dozens of khaki-clad personnel all milling about while they poured over seemingly endless mountains of paper. Contingent war plans for invading countries, hundreds of them all cooked up over the two hundred plus years of the Navy's existence. As Tom approached, the Master Chief and Vice CNO straightened as was customary, and Tom relieved them with a small nod of his head.

"Gentlemen," he greeted, coming to stand at the head of the table—eyes surveying the disarray of maps and Manila files upon the main console. "What are we looking at?" Tom asked, moving something to reveal a map of Jamaica. His eyes narrowed in silent question.

"Sir, we're cross-referencing the intel from the codebooks with everything we'd already gathered. Looks like Tavo's primary focus is four choke points in Cuba, as well as an asset in Jamaica. Analysts aren't sure who or what that asset is yet, _but_ , we do know it's high value," Meylan answered.

"What about the Satellites? Have we made any progress?" Tom rasped, rolling his wrist slightly until it cracked as he drew his arms folded against his chest.

Meylan made a regretful expression and shook his head, "No. Of the ones that weren't repurposed initially for global communications, there's only three left that we could get access to that weren't affected by the virus, and we're still trying to locate resources that can repurpose and encrypt them, Sir—It's gonna take months."

Tom's only reaction was a blink, "Guess we're doing this the old-fashioned way, huh?"

"Yes, Sir," Master Chief answered, producing a stack of files. "So far, I've compiled everything that could be relevant. Plans to invade Cuba and Mexico—cooked up during World War II." Jeter placed the files on top of the maps before his CNO.

"This could work," Tom affirmed, thumbing through the papers. "We may have had a breakthrough, with our other problem," he said under his breath and lower so they would be the only ones to hear, never drawing his focus from the plans before him. "I'll keep you in the loop."

* * *

**Tuesday, January 8** **th** **, USSSOUTHCOM Parking Garage—0200 hours**

"This remind you of your days in Chicago?" Sasha asked, elbow leaning against the darkly tinted window of the SUV they were in. Her eyes were scanning the garage for any sign of movement, glanced at her watch to confirm that Reyes was due to be off soon.

Mike laughed softly next to her, "Never thought I'd be sittin' in a parking lot on a stakeout again, but here we are—minus the donuts."

She didn't turn to him, but a small smile formed, and she chuckled. "Ninety percent of my missions are spent sitting in car, on a rooftop, or in the jungle on a stakeout—also sans donuts."

Mike quirked his head in a sarcastic manner. "Why exactly are you a spook again?"

Sasha scoffed and dropped her arm, adjusting herself in the seat to be more centralized. "I'm not _anymore_." There was a clear implication in her tone, a hint of bitterness that surprised her, which Mike dissected with ease.

"Press is still hounding you then." It wasn't much of a question, and there was an air of empathy laced in with regret for how it had all gone down.

Sasha's response was non-verbal, a subtle inclination of her head as she put that elbow back and drew her right knee up to rest her foot on the leather seat beneath her. Absently, she drummed her fingers against the leg. It shouldn't really bother her, it's what she'd intended after all—to go public with Tom, just not so explosively, and not in such a way that they didn't control the narrative.

"Everything happens for a reason, right?" she sighed. Mike didn't have an answer for that, because he couldn't think of a good reason for any of this, but he understood the need to verbalize it. However cliché. Sasha, like most of them, didn't do well with things beyond her control.

"Right," he affirmed.

"I've been meaning to—" she broke off, deciding directness was the best option. "Tom told me about Andrea." Unsure why she should feel so nervous in discussing this with him when he'd seen it for himself on the James all those years ago.

"Oh, you guys talk? I thought you just screwed all the time," he fired back easily, using humor to avoid the sore topic. For a second, Sasha could only blink in shock before she snorted. Beside her, Mike smiled, chuckling lightly.

"Wow." He could hear the smile in her voice, still attempting to recover, "not the response I expected. But for what it's worth, we thought the snoring meant you were asleep."

Mike gave one brash laugh, "The snoring was to block it out!"

"Duly noted."

"You guys owe me new sheets. I can't look at those the same way anymore."

Without missing a beat, Sasha answered. "Particular color you'd like?"

Mike was still grinning widely, "White is fine."

Sasha schooled her features, but not before catching his eye and shaking her head at him in amusement before becoming more serious again. Glad that the dingy lighting of the parking lot hid the embarrassed blush that colored her cheeks. She knew what he was doing, she'd been around him long enough to know his tricks. "I'm here too. If you need to talk—Tom probably told you this already, but… I kind of have some… experience with that."

Mike sobered up and squinted a fraction. "He hinted—but only because he needed me to listen."

Sasha smiled softly, "It's fine, you don't have to cover for him. I'm okay with you knowing. You saw how I was when he left—I know this is different to that. _More_. But I've been there too…" she paused to swallow, wet her bottom lip as her head shook sadly. "I can't even count how many hours he spent just sitting with me, making sure I wasn't alone. It was days, and I just—I couldn't do anything. I couldn't respond." Mike was looking at her now, very intently. Listening to every word. "Just know that what you're doing helps. It matters, and when she's feeling up to it, you'll know." Mike's response wasn't much more than a small grunt of acknowledgment because his throat was suddenly thick. Didn't trust himself to speak, not fully.

After a few moments, he gave a curt nod. "Preciate that."

Her eyes scrunched in response, a tiny reciprocal motion and sad smile while she squeezed his arm in a comforting gesture. "Alright, I'm done. We can go back to our girl talk about my bedroom habits if you like."

Mike laughed, watery, and shook his head before clearing his throat and blinking away the distinct moisture. "No—no, I think I got the gist."

Sasha gave him a knowing soft sort of look, but there was still a heaviness in her expression. He thought to ask, but she started speaking before he could get there. Apparently, she had some things she needed to get off her chest too.

"I'm worried about him, Mike." Spoken quietly into the still air. "Ash said something during a fight that she really shouldn't have, and he's been quietly hating himself again ever since." She'd turned away, eyes scanning the parking lot instead for any signs of their target.

Mike frowned, as far as he was concerned, they had the picture-perfect family life, or as close to it as a post-plague family could be. "When was this?"

"In July, about Darien and not being there when she died," Sasha sighed. "She didn't mean it, but you know how he is, especially with that. And now with everything that just happened…" she trailed off and looked down. "I don't think the mission comes first anymore, and I don't know how to help him because I'm the problem this time."

Mike looked solemn as he stared at her profile, waiting patiently while she worked through her thoughts.

"I'm scared for what happens if the wrong person dies," she mumbled, fingers muffling her voice as they rested against her lips.

"You mean you?" Mike clarified, frowning.

There was a pause before she answered, a small and sharp exhale that was close to a soft scoff. "No." It was breathed, barely audible in the space between them. "The person he sends in my place because he's too scared to lose me." There was a darkness in her tone that he hadn't quite heard before, laden with regret. "He was gonna pick up that radio, he admitted it."

Mike's lips stretched across his teeth in a regretful grimace because he believed it. In the moment he'd thought it, waited for it to happen, and in the aftermath, he'd realized he couldn't fault Tom. After all the losses, everything they now knew, Mike wasn't sure he'd be able to choose differently if put in Tom's shoes.

"Can you really blame him?"

Sasha worried her lip between her teeth and shook her head. "No. I can't. That's why it's so hard, because I don't think I could choose to let him go either," she finally confessed. "He means everything to me, Mike," the simple statement hung there for a moment, "and every way I look at this, I can't find the answer." Her voice was tighter than usual, shoulders moving in a helpless shrug. "I just… I can't shake the feeling that I'm gonna lose him, and I don't mean dead."

A worried hand scrubbed down her face, a heavy exhale as she removed her leg from the seat and stretched it down again. "I can't undo it. I can't get him back across the line. I was selfish when I came back, I didn't hear it when he tried to tell me that he couldn't be in this position again. I don't think I even really understood it until now. But now we're at war and none of us can walk away, and he can't be impartial with me… Something's gonna happen where he has to make a choice that he can't live with either way and I won't get him back when he does that." She turned to Mike, her brows set into a deeply guilt-ridden line.

"I kept telling myself he's just overcompensating because of Darien… but it's not that. It's _me_. I'm the problem. When we were in Kosovo, he got his whole team pinned for five days because he couldn't leave me and they wouldn't leave him—"

Mike interjected, seeing that this was going down a path of self-blame that wouldn't amount to anything of value. "He ever tell you about our talk in Asia after you guys rescued us from that island?"

Sasha's lips quirked as an answer, silently prompting him to elaborate.

"I told him not to let his chance with you go because of the rules, and I'd gladly say the same thing again. The world is different now. There's no point in sacrificing if it isn't to live, or love, and be happy, and I don't think there's a single person who faults you guys for making that happen."

Sasha considered him, clearly touched by his words.

"Even Foster and Green—the whole crew stuck with em, and they almost got us all killed in Gitmo," he quipped, quirking his brow and tipping his head toward the end of that sentiment. She'd been about to respond, but movement caught in her peripheral, a figure emerging from the service door.

"That's him," she uttered, any hint of emotion gone, and the conversation tabled.

Mike straightened, zeroing on their target who shuffled toward a beaten-up Sedan. They waited an appropriate amount of time before Mike started up and began their clandestine pursuit.

* * *

Sasha shouldn't have been surprised that Tom was awake when she slipped in around o-four hundred. He appeared to be very deeply engaged in watching whatever show was quietly re-running on the TV except there was that vacant distant expression. Something he did well at masking when he knew she was around, but he hadn't registered her arrival. Purposefully, she made work of removing her shoes, intending for the sound to be louder than usual so he'd know she was there. Didn't miss how he stiffened before figuring out it was just her.

By the time she reached the living room having discarded her jacket, Tom was already standing and pressing the remote. "Hey."

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Yeah," he deflected. "You guys find anything?"

Sasha tilted her head left because that was a bald-faced lie. Could tell by his eyes that maybe he'd tried but hadn't been able to. "We have an address, I'm gonna run it tomorrow, but—he's our guy. Once we figure how he's connected and to whom, we'll have everything we need."

He'd reached out to curl a lock of hair before tucking it behind her ear. "Good," he acknowledged, but the look on his face showed he was only half-listening. Looking at her instead with the sort of reverence he usually reserved for when she was about to go on a mission or leave… or when he'd been stood at the ready tables in Asia silently begging her not to get hurt.

The pad of his thumb passed over her cheekbone and he hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it tumbled from his lips anyway as she regarded him with a troubled expression. "You're so beautiful."

Her lips parted as she inhaled, leaned into his hand but looked pained. "Tom, what's going on?"

"Nothing." _Everything_. _Every time I close my eyes, I see you dead._ The thumb stroked, working back and forth in an attempt to soothe the worry from her face.

"Then why do I feel like you're saying goodbye to me every time we're together?" She breathed.

"Maybe I just want you to know how much I love you," he countered quietly.

Sasha narrowed her eyes, stepping forward until there was no more space between them. "I know," she assured him, "and I'm right here."

Saw the flicker pass over his features, knew that she'd hit the nerve. Uncovered at least in part whatever it was he was stuck on, though she had no idea what had triggered it tonight, and sighed. Wrapping her arms tightly around him while he buried his face in her hair.


	15. Chapter 15

**Friday, January 11** **th** **, 2019—USSOUTHCOMM, Mayport, Florida**

Tom strode with Sasha side by side toward the secured area which held their prisoner. He'd caved two days ago, stated he was willing to talk but only to Sasha, and they'd decided to let him stew a little more. His request surprised no one, but to Tom's credit, he'd given little external reaction and remained uncharacteristically silent about it. Enough for Sasha to suspect Tom was avoiding it entirely. They split in the hallway, Tom heading for the adjacent monitoring room, and she toward the other.

Sasha paused briefly when she entered, observing while Hector stared up at her intently from his chair, eyes black, and a little unhinged. Slowly, she settled herself in the chair opposite from him. Very precisely. Watched as his eyes traveled deliberately first from her face to her neck, then her body, until settling upon her left hand, where he observed the thin gold band. The hint of a smirk tugged at his mouth, and she forced herself not to retract her hand in a knee jerk reaction. Instead, Sasha neatly clasped them together over the Manila folder she'd brought with her—the movement appearing natural rather than reactive. When Hector finally looked up again, her expression was unaffected. Bored. Save for the subtly quirked brow that indicated she wouldn't wait long for him to waste her time.

"You look better than the last time we met," he drawled, attempting to taunt while staring again at her now healed neck.

"I'd say the same, but, your nose seems a little crooked—guess you didn't get that set," she countered effortlessly with a soft, sarcastic smile.

In the adjacent room, Mike discreetly glanced at Tom in his peripheral, whose jaw was already clenched to suppress that burgeoning rage beneath his cool exterior.

Hector merely shifted his head before glancing toward Green, who stood guard silently at the door. "I speak only to you."

Sasha fought not to roll her eyes, and looked at Green, nodding once at him. Danny only lingered for a moment, holding Martinez's gaze in a clear and silent threat before he turned and left the room, positioning himself just outside of it. The door clicked, and Sasha turned her attention back to the General.

"So talk," she prompted.

"Your game will not work," he stated vehemently.

"Game?" her tone was innocent, and the expression she wore.

"This silence. Your men. Keeping me here—there is a movement which cannot be stopped, and it is only a matter of time until my people free me."

Sasha exaggerated her response, nodding as if that were of great surprise to her before she clicked her lips against her teeth and grimaced at him. "Yeah… I'm not sure you're as valuable to _'the movement'_ as you think." Appealing to the arrogance she knew he possessed.

"I created the movement!"

Sasha narrowed her eyes, "Yet the people chant for Tavo and not you?"

"Tavo speaks for the people. He gives them a voice."

"Whose voice? Your voice? You believe in his tactics, his methods?"

"I gave him his tactics; I am his method!"

Sasha pulled a face of disbelief, taunting and belittling him. _"You?"_

Hector raised his chin defiantly, arrogantly, and Sasha feigned interest. Facially shrugging while her eyebrow quirked. "I guess that could make sense… he went from being a Janitor to leading a revolution for a people he's not even a part of." Tipped her head, "Hates the country that gave his family asylum. Food. Education. Shelter, but loves Columbia? You sure he even believes what he says? Or is he that much of an egomaniac that he'll do anything for power?"

Hector huffed out a scoff, sneered, "America gave him _nothing_. He put his life on the line to secure our freedom with the rebels in Panama. I gave him refuge after your people stole the future from _all_ of us! Kept us the slaves to your trade agreement."

Sasha opened the Manila folder in response, pulling a photograph and placing it on the metal table between them. She pushed it forward with the index finger of her left hand. Hector swallowed as he looked at it, unable to hide the flutter of his eyelids in response. Sasha tapped her finger twice on the picture, "And who decides this? You or Gustavo?"

Hector's nostrils flared. "I will not fall your games," he sneered, leaning back in the chair, and raising his head.

" _Hm_. So you ordered this? Gustavo has no idea that his General executes _'the people'_ for whom he speaks? The ones who don't comply?" She pulled out another photograph, the one that made her stomach twist and turn into knots. "And this?" Hector's eyes flickered down, and his brow creased, unable to control his reaction this time. "These aren't _'the people'_ you claim to defend? This doesn't matter to you?"

"What is this?" He answered tersely, veins in his neck thickening.

"It's Panama, Hector. It's what your leader does when he doesn't get his way."

Martinez affixed her with a stare that Sasha couldn't quite discern. "This is how you justify your crimes?" he shot back, nostrils flared, "A blue-eyed Gringo, _very beautiful_ —unforgettable—who stormed the camp with the one you call Green but missed a body. Took the hands and feet of the people fighting for freedom with a machete."

Tom swallowed, purposefully ignoring the way he saw Mike react in his peripheral. Refused to engage in the ardent gaze now at the side of his face as Mike processed that information and put two and two together.

Sasha gave no reaction, but her voice was cold when she asked, "What threat could children possibly present to your freedom, Hector? Not even a bullet, butchered alive!" His eyes burned as they looked at her, unable to answer her question, and she saw the doubt creeping behind his bravado.

"You know what I think," she paused, studying him with scrutiny again. "I don't think you know anything. I think you're a follower—I think you were lied to and used, Hector. Gustavo knows you're here and yet he sends no one… you're disposable to him—you're a pawn and he's using your army to kill the very people you claim to free." Sasha tilted her head as she affixed him with a sympathetic look that she knew would make his skin crawl. Saw the flicker that crossed his face before he reined it in and pretended to be amused instead.

"Arrogance and lies. Another American pastime."

Sasha smirked softly and inhaled, pushed back her chair. "It was a good talk but—I only have time for people that know things."

As she collected the photographs laid before him, Hector saw an opening and seized it. He burst from the seat, moving as far as his tethered feet and handcuffs would allow. Just enough slack in both to grab her wrist and twist it in such a way that she was forced to submit and bend her elbow or risk it breaking. Sasha let out an involuntary yell of pain as the ligaments screamed in warning, and he used the way she faltered along with her momentum to yank her clean across the table. Where Sasha expected a hit, he did something worse. Forced his lips against hers roughly while he held her pinned beneath him. Knew exactly why he'd done it and for whom.

She was wrenching an arm free to knock him out when she heard the door almost rip off its hinge, and not three seconds later Hector was torn clean from above her and slammed into a wall. Thought she heard the distinct sound of cracked plaster in addition to the arrival of Green, and Mike, who stood shocked as she quickly recovered. Sasha spun herself on the table, only to find Tom with his hands around Hector's neck. For a moment, there was complete stillness, each of them frozen in place before sense kicked in and Sasha with frantic urgency realized that they couldn't let him do this. No matter how much they might want Martinez dead, how much he deserved it, it was wrong.

"Tom," she called, but he didn't respond. His gaze was locked intensely with Hector's. Sasha stood and moved, but where she'd expected to see rage, she found nothing but complete, collected focus—a level of calmness and control which sent chills down her spine because she realized he was doing this on purpose. This wasn't an emotional response; this was a choice.

Her voice held a distinct air of panic when she tried again. _"Tom."_ Reached out and grabbed his wrist while he choked him. Tom didn't react. Didn't even flinch, his eyes firmly locked with the General as he watched the color slowly change in his face. Squeezed with all of his strength, muscles rigid and flexed in his arms, and hands white where the circulation constricted from the force. Sasha's eyes darted between Tom and Martinez, noting the deep reddish-purple color of his skin. Knew she had seconds left to get him to stop, or he'd be dead.

"Stop! Tom, _stop it_ —we need him alive," she tugged at his arm, nodded at Green and Slattery, who were caught in a strange form of indecision on whether they were really about to wrestle their CNO— _Tom,_ away from Martinez. Still, he ignored. Stayed rigid with a surge of almost inhuman strength that both Green and Slattery couldn't shake as they attempted to wrench him away, and counted the seconds in his head. Watched as the defiance started to slip into pure undulated panic in Hector's blackened eyes, as he suffocated him to the absolute brink of death before releasing his grip. Watching as his body slumped to the ground at his feet and he gasped desperately for air.

Tom shrugged off Green and Slattery, more aggressively than he should have, and they let his arms go, though he had enough restraint not to tear his right wrist out of Sasha's grip. Settled instead for giving her a look which clearly communicated his request for her to let go, and she did quickly with a look on her face that he didn't want to process right now. He could hear their elevated breaths around him, hear the tension in the room, and he fixed his gaze on Martinez again. Watched with extreme gratification while Hector writhed on the floor as he gasped, only stilling when he met the blue fire again, and though Chandler was silent, his message was clear.

Tom looked him up and down, then calmly looked at Sasha again. With a subtle movement of his eyes, he gestured to the adjacent room, and she wordlessly grabbed the folder. Green stepped forward, hauling Martinez back into the chair, and Sasha exchanged troubled looks with Mike as she passed him.

The door had barely closed to the observation room before she erupted.

"What the hell—"

"Are you okay?" Tom interjected quietly. She could rein hell down on him later for all he cared, but he needed to know that first.

Sasha blinked and moved her head in disbelief like she didn't understand why he was asking her that. " _Me?_ I'm _fine_ , you on the other hand—"

Tom squinted, " _Sasha_. He just assaulted—"

"You just tried to kill him! And you didn't listen to me!" She threw the file on the desk to punctuate her point. "What were you thinking!? Did you forget what happened after you killed Shaw?"

Tom scowled at her. Should have expected she'd be this blunt by the indignant look in her eyes alone, but it had been a while since she'd been this angry with him. "That was different."

"How!?"

He didn't answer, clenched his jaw instead, and merely blinked.

"Explain it to me, Tom. I'm serious this time, I'm lost and I'm trying to understand what the hell is going on with you!"

Instead, he seethed, knew she had him by the balls on this one, and he didn't much care to explain himself. All he cared about was the immense satisfaction he'd derived from feeling Martinez's neck under his bare hands, the moment the fear had shone in his enemy's eyes—the moment of victory.

"He's afraid to die," he told her nonchalantly instead. Sasha blinked in confusion and scrunched her features into an expression that could only be defined as _'what the fuck are you talking about?'_

"I could see it in his eyes. He's scared."

" _Tom—"_

"I wasn't gonna kill him, Sash. I just needed to know." His tone was definitive when he cut her off. Assured.

She exhaled, exasperated, _"Know what?"_

Tom's eyes fluttered, eyelids moving but not closing as he regarded her. Trying to dispel the sound of that gun firing. The taste of bile in his mouth as he'd heaved endlessly for what seemed like hours into the sink of that stateroom. Tried to forget how he'd laid on the floor broken, in unimaginable pain, and visualized blowing his brains out, the only thing that seemed prudent to do. Convinced himself that the kids would be ok, Mike had already assured him years ago should anything happen to him they'd be taken care of. He trusted Mike.

"What he's afraid of."

There was a darkness that opened a pit in her stomach. Her head quirked in a micro shake. "You can't kill him, Tom. I know you want to, and I know why, but you _can't._ " Delivered bluntly, and Sasha almost wished she hadn't because the sadistic shadow that passed across his face became far more concerning than she'd previously thought thanks to his next words.

"I don't need to."

The substantial intensity of the cold steel-blue gaze Sasha found herself subject to made her insides clench. Found that she didn't have a response because she'd never quite seen it before—and while those words should have been comforting, Sasha could only dread what Tom meant. Various scenarios that didn't warrant contemplating flew through her head until softly she shook it, eyes round and pleading—trying to appeal to the man she knew him to be. Swallowing against the knot in her throat as she took a breath and cautiously stepped closer.

"Don't make the same mistake again, the same one I did… _please_. You're scaring me," she breathed it, pleaded it. As close to begging as Sasha Cooper would ever get.

His eyes softened, turned his head to the side a little as he brought a hand up to gently run his knuckles against her cheek. "I know what I did, and I wasn't gonna kill him—but he needed to know that I will."

Sasha searched his eyes, didn't know if that was supposed to make her feel better or worse, but settled for worse. The confirmation of her suspicion that he'd been in complete control of himself was, in reality, a far more sinister prospect.

Earnestly, Sasha took his face between her hands, making sure there could be no mistaking her words. "That's exactly why I'm scared." She watched as his eyes faltered almost imperceptibly, a modicum of uncertainly filling them. The only sign that he was actually listening. "I won't let you go down this path. I know you're in pain, Tom. I can see it, and I can help you, but I promise you— _this_ —what you're doing right now? It won't fix it."

Sasha cursed inwardly and clenched her eyes in frustration as the handle moved, and they stepped back. An automatic response drilled in after years of sneaking around when they shouldn't be. Beyond exasperated because for a split second she had him. There was a spark of something in his eyes, something sad and fearful and it had called to her as if begging for help before it was interrupted and buried again beneath that practiced exterior.

Mike stepped through the door, rigid with apprehension, and looked cautiously between the two. Tom saved him the trouble of speaking by addressing him first.

"Save the speech, she already read me the riot act." His tone was dry when he said it.

Mike tilted his head and raised a brow, "She's right and you know it."

Tom's jaw muscle flexed while he affixed Mike with a reticent look. "Noted." The acknowledgment hung there for a brief moment before Tom used the opportunity to excuse himself. "I'll be in the war room." Though it was clear he had no intention of engaging further in conversation about this, not right now at least. Sasha shook her head softly and stared at the floor while he left, leaning back against a table to perch on the edge of it.

There was a thick silence where Mike didn't know whether she needed space or an ear, but she pre-empted his indecision. "What exactly happened after the feed cut?" It was quiet, and she was looking at the floor while she spoke. The need to know finally prompting her to ask, morbid as it was.

Mike's lips drew into a regrettable line. "We were in CIC, he didn't say a word. Looked like he was about to go down, but he managed to leave and then shut himself in his cabin."

"For how long?"

"Hours. We gave him space—I was about to go check on him but, he came to us before I got there. All he said was 'mission hasn't changed' and then he left again." Mike exhaled, "Something broke in that room. Could see it in his eyes... I thought it got fixed when you showed up alive, but..." He trailed off and tilted his head instead of finishing that statement. No need, Mike felt he'd made himself clear.

Sasha tried not to let her frustration show, but his answer left her no closer to a solution, so she merely pursed her lips in response, and folded her arms while she fought not to cry.

"We'll steer him back," Mike said optimistically, and she didn't mean to, but she scoffed. Emotions getting the best of her.

"How? No one can pull rank on him, he's basically the whole god damn military at this point. Reiss doesn't have the balls to reel him in, or his respect _—_ and he didn't even listen to _me_ in there. Don't act like you can't see it." Mike gave a disparaging look in response because he couldn't disagree. Sasha pinched her nose and reeled herself in. Exhaling heavily, "I'm sorry, I know you're just trying to help." Her bottom lip parted, working as if she were deciding what to say before she decided better of it.

"I have to go. I have a meeting." Mike straightened and nodded his response while she left the room quickly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, mental health triggers. Discussions of suicide.

It was a few hours later when Mike let himself into Tom's office. Didn't take a genius to figure out what he was there about. Tom pulled his eyes up from the reports. Status updates from the front lines in Mexico. Peered reticently from the desk, right hand still holding a page upright while he waited. Mike clasped his hands loosely in-front of his body, a deep frown at his brow because he'd been trying to figure this out for hours now. How Tom could have strayed so far as to overlook war crimes of this magnitude, even with Sasha at the center of them. The lack of reaction to Hector's account had been evidence enough for Slattery.

"You knew, and you covered for them." It wasn't an accusation nor a question—rather an opening statement which so readily set the tone for the conversation to come.

Tom blinked once and straightened himself in the chair. Put down that paper and leaned back, resting his weight on the right armrest. "I did." Mike squinted his eyes and shook his head a little, a disbelieving smirk that held zero amusement pulling at his lips. He knew Tom owned up to his shit when called out, but this? How blasé he seemed; it colored him wrong. "They made a mistake," Tom began, his tone a warning, but Mike clearly didn't agree.

"Hell of a mistake. You did hear what Martinez said, right?" The implication clear, though non-verbal. The suggestion that a war was started over one transgression committed by their people. A war that had almost killed Andrea and would take the life of thousands more before it was done. The weight of it was unbearable in Mike's gut. The difficulty in separating his friendships from his love, and the oaths which he held—his competing loyalties—all creating a battle within his heart.

" _Mike—"_

"And the President knows about this?" he interrupted skeptically, trying to understand any part of what had transpired. How it had gone down. _Why_ it had gone down.

Tom affixed him with a look. "He knows about Sasha, but not Green—Kara doesn't know, and she doesn't need to find out… He just got his family back, Mike. I wasn't gonna destroy it again—not over this." Placing weight on those words. Lending in part, some color to his decision not to do what was prudent, and an explanation as to how Green wasn't court-martialed either. "You know he was fried. Burned out. He'd already been on active for three years when the pandemic hit—and he was non stop since. You know what kind damage that does." Tom defended.

"And Sasha?" Mike prompted, not buying that Tom's usual _'don't fuck with her'_ tantrum would have any effect whatsoever on their Commander-In-Chief. Quite the opposite, in fact. Hoped that Tom hadn't justified what they'd done, though, considering his most recent display—maybe his friend really had reached that point.

Tom blinked slowly. "I told Reiss if he went after her, I'd go public with my part and tell the press about the op. he denied."

For a moment, though he wasn't sure why that should shock him in hindsight, Mike was genuinely blindsided. Astonished that Tom actually had the balls to blackmail the President over this. Coming from the guy who'd broken because he'd failed to hold himself to the _'higher standard'_ it made little sense.

"Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying they should be in jail, but to bury this completely? You could have worked with Oliver to get them pardoned." Mike said, tilting his head to stress his point. Couldn't believe the three of them had kept this hidden for so long. _Years_. There was a tense and silent exchange where both Admirals regarded each other, and then both friends. The men behind their uniforms and oaths. The men who'd stuck by each other through the end of the world, and that was the man who Tom appealed to.

"You don't think I know that?" he was sincere and open when he elaborated, intending to lay it bare. It was past the point of pulling punches or sparing the morbid details. "Press would have found out, hounded them night and day, ended their careers, and for what? To pretend it would make a difference. Suddenly, it would all go back to how it was before?" His tone was sarcastic, disillusioned. Tom paused, exhaling heavily through his nose before continuing.

"You don't know her like I do, Mike. What you saw after I left was nothing—I let her go on that mission when I knew she wasn't okay, and that is a hundred percent on me. I failed her."

Tom saw some of the tension loosen in Mike's expression, saw that he was at least willing to listen. "This is what you meant when you said she said a breakdown?"

Some of the steely stoicism slipped away from Tom then. "Panama was the symptom; it was everything before that. Her childhood, what happened to her in Asia, her husband, Fletcher… _me_ … and that's just the stuff I know about." His heart hammered against his ribcage. "I had to break her in Charleston just to make her talk cause she's so scared of trusting someone, and I thought that was rock bottom, but it wasn't even close—we were only back in St. Louis for two weeks before something snapped. She didn't come home one night, and when I finally found her, she said the only reason she didn't go through with it was because she knew it would kill me—so you tell me how I was supposed to turn my back on her," he ground out with a fiery anguish.

Mike's entire demeanor changed, fell into something deeply empathetic and sad. All manner of righteousness stripped, and he hoped Tom wasn't about to ask him what he'd do, because the parallels were too raw for him to consider, and he also had no answer to that.

"If you need to judge someone, judge me. I know the choice I made, and if you could make a different one then you're a better man," Tom said sincerely. Pausing before he delivered his closing statement to ensure there could be no mistaking his position. "But I won't let you confront her about this. You're my friend, but she is my _wife_ , and I'm drawing the line."

Dozens of small puzzle pieces slotted into place. Things that had given Mike pause at the time, but in the chaos of re-building, had remained unsolved. Like how calls or messages would sometimes go weeks without being returned. How she'd gone back on active, yet Burk and Miller had been borrowed over the course of eight months arbitrarily because both she and Danny were _'unavailable'_ for missions. Grounded, Mike now realized. Why Danny and Kara had separated for close to a year before reconciling. Why Tom had seemed so stressed, something he'd wrongly attributed to dealing with his issues from before.

Mike nodded slowly at him, processing and then accepting it for what it was. More impossible decisions made in dire circumstances. "Should probably lose that footage," he murmured. Not missing the relief and the level of gratitude that was present in Tom's expression.

Tom called out to him as he left the room, "Mike—"

He turned.

"I'm sorry you got dragged into this."

Gave a small and regretful sort of grimace and a nod before he left.

Alone once more, Tom audibly exhaled, moving his elbows to the desk and threading his fingers together. Slumped forward until the ridge of his brows steepled against the pad of his thumbs and breathed. Listened with eyes closed to the sounds of the building. The AC working, the dull drone of voices beyond his frosted glass walls—welcomed white noise against the raging tide of his thoughts.

* * *

She wasn't surprised that he acted as if nothing had happened when he came home. She wrote the playbook for that after all, and Sasha was beginning to see exactly what she'd put him through for all those months before Panama. The constant worry, the gnawing fear, the helplessness, and maybe she realized _why_ she loved missions so much. For the simple fact that she knew what to do. There was always a plan. Measurable expectations and objectives to meet which would result in either a success or a failure. There were only ever two outcomes, and everything was predictable.

_Control._

Maybe that's why she gave up on trying to find a solution for the night and focused instead on living. Making the most of the slowly spiraling chaos to take advantage of the simple things like being in the same country. The same house with no kids—which had started on the kitchen counter, then moved to the shower, before reaching the bed where they now lay entwined. Knowing and accepting that they were about to walk to through hell before this was over.

* * *

**Tuesday, January 22** **nd** **, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

Tom was mid meeting with the POTUS, Vice CNO, and MCPON when Sasha all but burst into their conference room, docket in hand and cheeks flushed like she'd possibly even run from the wing that housed her office. Tom paused mid-sentence and caught her eyes, silently telling her to speak. "I have them. They're in a safe house, but they're planning to move—I need approval on this op., _now_." She placed the file on the table and slid it toward Tom, who stopped it effortlessly and flicked it open. Scanning quickly. Fought to suppress the roll of his eyes when Reiss essentially snatched it from his hand as if its contents would make sense to him without a thorough and drawn-out explanation. The tick of Tom's jaw was the only reaction he gave. Cast his eyes off distantly while he waited for this dick measuring contest to be done so he could give her the signature required.

Silently, they all exchanged looks. Meylan, Jeter, and Chandler while Sasha grew ever more impatient. "All due respect, Sir—if we don't move tonight, we could lose them for good. They're moving weapons and ordinance out of there by the truckload, and that means I have less than ten hours to make this happen," she implored.

Reiss raised his eyes slowly and scrutinized her, focus narrowing and cheeks hollowing a fraction. He'd been questioning her, _no_ , punishing her exclusively since Panama. Rendering her every move an up-hill battle for the sake of proving a point. It was infuriating, his complete disapproval entirely evident, and it had become clear were it not for Tom, she'd be sitting in a cell right now. "SWAT?"

"They have tech that's not compromised, remote surveillance—without it we're going in blind. It's not a small compound."

Reiss quirked his brow before turning to Chandler. "And you'll sign off on this?"

Tom answered without hesitation, "Yes."

"But you've barely even read it." The accusation behind that statement clear.

Tom had to stop himself from responding sarcastically with the obvious remark that he couldn't read it, because he'd just taken it, and chose wisely instead. "I trust my team to execute." Knew Reiss was just phishing for another reason to question him on his judgment when it came to her. Petty, in Tom's opinion, because that ship had well and truly sailed—pun intended.

Reiss peered at him for a few more seconds before conceding, handing it back. Tom wordlessly pulled a pen from the table. Pushed it back toward Sasha deftly, and she caught it in the same effortless manner before leaving just as abruptly as she'd arrived.

* * *

**Pumpkin Hill Creek Preserve, Jacksonville, Florida—2300 Hours**

It had started in an aircraft hangar commandeered as a command center. Crates, tech and remote surveillance trucks all set up with receivers and hooked to new comms. Screens resting atop pop ups with headsets and wires that Ensign Swain worked diligently to connect, secure, and ensure would perform before receiving a crash-course from SWAT's surveillance specialist in operating their drone. He was a bright kid, Sasha thought. Then it was Miller and Burk landing from Key-West, looking more fired up than she'd seen in years. More than happy to be sprung from assisting repairs to join this op. How they'd swaggered toward the bay, dressed in their all blacks, against the fiery tendrils of sunset like something of a movie. Miller had called it his Top Gun moment when he'd ripped off his Ray-Ban's and man hugged with Danny, before fist bumping Pablo.

And when _he_ sauntered in at twenty-one hundred, hands clasped behind his back, dressed in blue digis towering in all his ridiculous glory, her heart had still fluttered. Just like the first time. Reminded so vividly of Kosovo in that moment that her smile and his soft smirk were unstoppable.

Sasha loved this.

Her job. The team. Missions. Him.

This is what she did best, and it showed.

They'd briefed, her as Team Lead standing before two pin boards littered with blueprints, and weeks of intel condensed into one perfectly crafted direct action plan—capture or kill, and Reiss had looked on with a strange sort of reverence as he actually witnessed how it all worked. Tom knew it. Saw it in the way her eyes came alive, how her whole being lit up and there was an uncomfortable lurch. It told him he was too selfish because this made her happy and above all else, that's all he'd ever wanted her to be.

" _Cobra One in position,"_ Sasha whispered.

" _Cobra Two, set,"_ Burk spoke.

" _Bravo team, ready,"_ the SWAT leader said.

Tom scanned the uplink one last time, confirming the number of signatures before he gave the order. "Execute."

Each team sprung from their positions toward their intended targets. A collection of buildings nestled deep into the pine and moss filled uplands of the Preserve. Earth spongy and damp under boots as they silently sliced through the night. The only sounds to be heard were that of surrounding nature, fauna rustling in the light breeze, and the tactile friction of combat clothes as they swarmed. Sasha kneeled, Green, Pablo, and Miller following suit. Held up a fist with three fingers.

_Two._

_One._

Miller pulled the pin, waiting as Danny kicked through the door before throwing the stun grenade into the building. Stillness gone, darkness ripped by the strobing light, their eyes shielded by night-vision helmets. Silence burst into ear-splitting cracks. Yelling. Bodies scurrying out of rooms to return fire and then muzzle flashes galore, like a dancing display of fireflies in the night. The sound of bullets ricocheting and firing like a derelict band. The scene was the same on all screens. Cobra's one, two, and Bravo.

The various yells.

" _Down on the ground!"_

" _Get on your knees!"_

Reiss loomed at Tom's shoulder. Eyes affixed as he observed. One elbow crossed and the other at 90 degrees while his fingers grasped over his chin. He'd never been front row before. Sasha moved through the room, clearing and dropping targets with ease. Finesse honed over years. Breathe. Point. Shoot. Better than muscle memory.

"Clear!"

His voice crackled alive in her ear, _"Cobra One, you have movement at your six, looks like two bogies heading North toward the trucks on the west-side."_

Sasha hit her radio. "Roger that, Team Lead in pursuit." She lifted her head, sweeping the room one more time to confirm they were safe.

"Green, Rambo on me!"

Tom watched as they filed out, Miller staying back to hold the space secure for SWAT. They moved quickly in the open space between the three different buildings until they had a viewpoint. Sasha's gut clenched with adrenaline. Excitement. Anger. Apprehension. She'd found her. _Kelsi_. America's number one was hauling packs along with three other guys into the bed of a pickup, clearly intending to bail. Quickly Sasha scanned, finding a Jeep that would work for pursuit, older, able to be Hotwired, and she motioned her intent to Danny. He nodded, confirming he would cover, and she moved fast and low. A yell rang out in Spanish.

" _Por ahí!"_

Bullets flew past, heard Green and Pablo returning fire. Sasha ducked, dropping just in time behind the jeep. Her hand grasped at the handle finding it unlocked and crawled in. Keeping below the glass while the cabin let off loud zinging noises with every bullet that hit. She tore at the steering column, crossed the wires just as she heard the other truck fire up and haul out. The jeep sprung into life. Sasha pulled her rifle off and threw it in the passengers' seat so she could drive. Danny and Pablo both running toward it to jump in.

It was only then that she noticed her helmet was hit, and she was blind, the bullet having screwed with her night vision. She ripped the googles up and out of way. Hauled out of the compound in the direction they'd gone. She cursed, the headlights and billowing dust of the back-trail effectively produced near white-out conditions, made it so she could only see mere feet in front of the car.

Aggressively, she jammed the radio button, "Tom, I need you be my eyes."

He focused zeroing in on the glowing heat sigs on the aerial view screen. Made rapid calculations based on their tracking speed relative to objects, estimating their velocity so he could navigate from the sky.

" _Hard left in 50 yards."_

Sasha banked left, wheels skidding out of traction until they gripped again and tore at the dirt, spitting it up violently and splattering it across the ground, trees, and car doors in their wake. Pablo and Danny grabbed the handholds to counterbalance against the momentum of the turn. Around 100 yards ahead, Sasha caught the glow of headlights for a brief second before the dust billowed back, obscuring her view again.

" _Straight road—gun it."_

Reacting easily to his instruction, she slammed her foot down on the gas. Both hands gripped the steering wheel as it wobbled and fought to spin out of control, the four-wheel drive pulling as if into every minuscule fissure in the ground—wanting to follow each channel. Adrenaline rushed in her veins, pumping blood. Alive. High. Addicted.

" _Veer right in 50, there's a path through the trees, follow it straight, you'll come to T and be able to cut them off."_

Sasha caught the path, _just_ wide enough for the jeep to slip through, dust vanishing as the wheels tracked over muddy pools instead. Panic surged slamming into her heart when the left right tire slipped and skidded, almost getting them bogged in place before it caught traction again. Letting them free.

The rampage continued.

" _On your left in 75…"_ she cut off the headlights, seeing the barest hint of theirs as the Jeep continued its path to intercept.

" _50… 25…"_

"Hold on!" she warned Pablo and Green, put her foot down again, committing to her somewhat crazy plan. Could see now that she'd just make it in time to catch the bed of their truck so long as she didn't let off the gas. The seconds seemed to stretch, time, and vision working as if in slow motion when the bumper of the Jeep impacted with the right rear of the pickup. Metal crumbled and snarled upon impact. Both vehicles spun wildly out of control, though Sasha managed to keep theirs upright. The pickup swerved violently before rolling, tore a long and deep groove into the dirt, which she briefly caught before being blinded a second later by the ejection of airbags. Pablo and Danny were slammed into the doors but held steadfast until the Jeep lurched to a halt—quickly bursting from the back doors with rifles drawn.

Tom switched from focusing on the aerial view screen to Sasha's body cam, watched as she too left the Jeep, grabbed her weapon from the back, and followed the others. Turning on her rifle-mounted flashlight. The pickup was laid on its left side flipped clean around to where its underbelly faced them at a 45-degree angle to the road. Its wheels still span, albeit unevenly and precariously wobbled. The axle cracked clean in two. Oil dripped down to the dirt, the exhaust hanging limp and strewn. The wreckage hissed. Dust swirling like smoke where its headlights beamed into the darkened swamplands.

Danny raised his fist, and both Pablo and Sasha crouched low, responding to the silent command, knowing exactly the play. Sasha moved forward, tapped Danny once on the shoulder before taking his spot, and he moved left while she provided cover. Pablo split right. They each exchanged eye contact briefly before Danny gave a sharp nod and they swarmed the cabin. Two of them were out cold, heads bleeding steadily, the others were crawling stiffly, and dazed through the broken windows.

"Hands!" Danny yelled as Sasha and Pablo both stood in line with him.

Kelsi was unsteady on her feet, squinting and raising her hands in front of her eyes to shield them from the harsh light now fixed on her face. Behind her, the sound of crunching glass was heard as her counterpart emerged. Pablo watched as he reached behind him, almost rolled his eyes, but shouted instead. "Be smart!"

The man spit blood into the dirt and whipped the pistol from his pants, "Viva Tavo!" Pablo dropped him with one bullet through the chest. Kelsi watched his body fall unceremoniously forward. _Thud_. Blinked while blood dripped down her brow. Sasha moved the trajectory of her mounted flashlight down, so it no longer blinded while Danny stepped forward, roughly securing her wrists with zip ties he'd pulled from his vest. Sasha couldn't help the flare of satisfaction when Kelsi winced and tried to jerk out of his grasp.

"Central Command, this is Team Lead—we have her. We have Kelsi," she spoke while staring at her with a cold, hardened look. Struggling to keep the retribution in her tone professional. To stamp down on the voice that wanted to yell about poetic justice. The same one that wanted to scream _'I told you so'_ to the world.

Ensign Swain exhaled stiffly with excitement, overcome with adrenaline and stupefied by how surreal it was to be sat in a chair, manning an aerial drone, next to Tom Chandler, in front of the President, while helping them execute the operation that just successfully captured America's most wanted. He could barely contain himself, barely suppress the fist that wanted to punch at the air. Instead, Swain caught the knowing grin of MCPON Russel Jeter and basked in the feeling of victory.

Even Meylan, normally cool at all times, couldn't suppress the immense satisfaction from controlling his face. Couldn't dispel the triumph from his gaze, silently echoing looks with the CNO and MCPON. Felt damn good to issue a direct hit after the shit they'd been subject to in Mayport. To draw actual blood from the enemy, here on US soil.

"Team Lead, this is Central Command— _hell of job,_ " Tom replied, smirk evident in his voice. "We'll send someone to pick you up. Compound is secure, teams gathering intel and rounding up hostiles now." Tom removed the coms headset, exulting in their win, and the mastery with which they'd achieved it. Something made very clear in his body language and the look he gave Reiss as he stood slowly and faced him. There was a moment, subtle and small, but important where Tom felt the shift. The one that was needed to win this war. A shift where Reiss began to appreciate that perhaps their strength in part came from their seemingly blind faith in each other. The one that believed without question that they would prevail. Reiss could see it now. He began to understand it, and more than that, he began to respect it. Began to see that the unconventional approach, the over-familiarity, the fact that they were more than a team, but a family _worked_. They refused to fail, because failing each other was not an option.

Reiss nodded in agreement, his praise genuine this time. "Hell of a job," he echoed. And though it killed him to admit it, there was a distinct thought that Tom Chandler was right when he'd blocked him from court-martialing Cooper.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no idea this would turn into the behemoth it's growing into; this is easily going to become the longest fic I've ever written. Also, in tweaking and uploading the other works to AO3 I noticed that somehow, I've churned out over 200,000 words in this "New China" verse across the different installments which is mildly insane to be honest. I'm a little surprised that I am still enjoying writing this fandom so much. Anyway, as always, thanks for taking the time to read and comment on my current obsession!
> 
> Warning: Dark thoughts, mental health triggers.

" _Tom?"_

Sasha's voice rang out over the comms interrupting the conversation he'd been having with Meylan regarding strategy for repairs. Essentially, discussing the dire need to recruit more hands, potentially opening it up to civilian contractors where possible to push up their timelines.

Tom picked up the headset again, "I'm here."

" _Are you seeing this?"_

Tom watched as the body cam view became shaky, indicating she was taking the camera out of its clip before the image panned what looked to be the inside of a large barn—or even a makeshift warehouse. Tom squinted as she walked through multiple corridors constructed from Plywood, a strange sense of déjà vu settling as she moved.

"Where are you?"

" _A barn half-a-mile down that road from the compound, found it on the way back—this doesn't seem familiar to you?"_

Tom watched as she rounded a corner that led to a hexagonal two-story constructed room, and it dawned on him. He _did_ know this place. A knock of finality hit him—like punching a badge into a coffin. "It's command." His tone was foreboding enough that it drew the attention of Reiss, Meylan, and Jeter at once and they all surrounded to get a good view.

Sasha walked closer to a console, pointing the camera at headshots of Reiss, Tom, Meylan, Jeter… then moved to blueprints marked with arrows and notations. Several locations circled, the Presidential bunker, Martinez's holding cell, Tom's office… she moved the map to the side, observing another—showing the tunnels they'd wrongly assumed no one knew about, paper marked with locations to rig explosives.

Cold danced down her spine. _"They were gonna take you out_ _and then finish us off_ _."_

Tom glanced left at Reiss, who appeared decidedly paler upon viewing the evidence of how thorough their enemy's objective and plan had been. Reiss could not ignore the unspoken heat from Chandler, the one which quietly gloated in being right not to delay Cooper's operation by picking through details. Right to trust that when Sasha said they needed to strike _now_ —it meant they should have moved yesterday.

" _At least we know what those explosives were for,"_ she drawled regretfully, _"you should have someone check the tunnel's—"_

"Already on it," Tom interjected in a low gentle rasp, inclining his head quickly at Meylan—a silent command to head back and oversee it. "Head back with Kelsi, I'll send in the crews to bag the rest. POTUS wants her secured ASAP."

By the time they made it back to the hanger with their prisoner in tow, the adrenaline had mostly worn off, replaced instead with the fatigue of being nonstop for over twenty hours. Sasha couldn't wait to go home, take a hot shower, a couple painkillers for the whiplash sure to set in tomorrow and curl up in bed next to Tom.

The van stopped, and the doors opened—several security guards ready to detain Kelsi. With their escort effectively complete, Sasha hopped out. Happy to be free of the crazed look she'd been subject to for the fifty-minute drive back to base, removed her helmet and set it on the awaiting ready tables before disarming and setting down her various weapons. Beside her, at their own tables, Green and Pablo mirrored her movements, content to go home and get some much-needed sleep while Miller and Burk handled the intel gathering crews.

Reiss looked on from the sidelines as Kelsi was pulled from the confines of the blacked-out vehicle, now bound by handcuffs chained to her waist as their maximum-security detail transferred her to the detention center on base. His eyes then traveled to Chandler, who was engaged in quiet conversation with Cooper. Watched as he tilted her jaw and inspected the light road-rash marring her cheekbone and chin—from the airbag, Reiss assumed. Bold, yet another not-so-subtle _'fuck-you, I'll do what I want'_ in his direction, and in the face of those rules. Something Reiss now realized he was going to have to treat with begrudging acceptance.

It had all gone well, right up until the regretful instance where Tom noticed the bullet hole in her helmet. Quietly spent a full minute rooted to the spot, unable to see anything else but Hector Martinez pulling that trigger and her body falling to the floor, hear anything but the sound of that bullet firing and her words, _'It's okay. I love you, let me go.'_ Something Sasha would have seen, had Swain not chosen that exact moment to pull her on a discovery from the intel already remotely uploaded by their crews. It would have helped to explain why Tom was so quiet when they got home. Why he couldn't seem to wind down. Why he'd lain in bed, anxiety through the roof and heart racing as he held her sleeping form in a near death-grip until sunlight threatened the horizon and exhaustion finally set in, only to wake ninety minutes later on the back of that same dream. The _'what if'_ where he ended up collecting her stiff with rigor body from the Helo. Sat with her corpse for hours, staring at the gaping hole in her forehead—point blank—no perfect circular mark to be found. Unable to wake until he put a pistol in his mouth and fired the gun.

"Tom," Sasha whispered, groggy and bone-tired, the room was bathed in blue, early morning light bleeding through blinds.

"It's okay, go back to sleep."

"No." It was soft but firm. "I gave you a month to do this your way, and it's not getting any better. You need to call Grantham."

_Silence._

Deafening and resounding silence while he sat with his back turned, elbows on knees and head resting against closed fists on the edge of their bed.

"I'm not letting this go—"

"Sash."

She moved, sitting upright in the bed. "I don't understand the issue, you're the one who found him, you've never been against it before so I don't see why this time it's different?"

"Because I don't know what happens to me if I unpack this right now!" he finally snapped. More fire than he'd intended in his tone, and while it should have offended her because she didn't much like being spoken to that way, she was just glad to have hammered a crack in that infuriating wall of calm, quiet deflection he'd so perfected. "We're at war, Sasha. We don't have time for me to sit around at the shrink while he tries to fix things that can't be undone!"

The sheets fell, skin pricking with goosebumps at the sudden temperate change while she crawled over the covers to kneel next to him.

"What things?" she urged quietly.

Tom scrubbed his hands over his face in a frustrated gesture, before dropping them to hang helplessly between his knees, battling with how much to divulge to get her to drop it without doing the exact thing he didn't want—triggering her guilt. "I saw your helmet, Sash," voice quiet. Dark. Unease settling in the hollow pit of his gut. "And I can't figure out how I let the mother of my kids die, but I can't cope with the thought of losing you—that's why we can't talk. Because you think this is your fault."

Sasha swallowed down on the sharp steady pain that had pierced through her heart, not that she'd show it. Clearly, that was the last thing he needed right now. A myriad of responses danced through her mind, highly logical ones such as his renewed guilt potentially having stemmed not just from Panama, but that regretful comment Ashely made. Things she knew he had no interest in hearing right now. Tom felt the mattress depress as she shifted closer still, bare knees making contact with his thigh. Felt it when her fingers ran through his hair, soft lips as they pressed and then rested against his temple, and he had to clench his jaw against the sting of moisture that surged unexpectedly.

"Call him, Tom. _Please_ ," she implored, warm breath tickling the skin of his ear as she whispered.

The rabbit hole was more like a chasm where Tom lay stuck between a rock and a hard place, convinced that a shrink couldn't help with this particular dilemma. There was only one acceptable outcome that would set his mind at ease—and it couldn't be guaranteed. _Safe._ That's all he needed—needed her to be safe, and she wasn't. None of them were.

"I'll think about it."

Tom hears the way she breathes, hears the indecision in it. The hesitation around wanting to dig in and put up the kind of fight he knows she's capable of. The kind that would leave them at opposing ends of an impasse, and he hopes she doesn't. More than anything, he can't fight with her—not like this and not when he needs them to be okay.

He grasped Sasha's left wrist, pulling her arm across his chest until her hand rested against it. Her other squeezed at the back of his neck and then his shoulder. From her position at his side, she held him tightly, resting her uninjured cheek against his temple. His right hand warming the goosebumps on the skin of her forearm as it caressed up and down absently—the friction the only discernable sound in the room.

"At least have him give you something to help you sleep," she compromised, heeding his involuntary request to keep the precarious peace. Caught because, despite everything, Sasha didn't think it wise to add a fight into the mix, however heartfelt her intentions were. There were other factors at play and frankly Sasha was scared a blow out between them might be the nail in a coffin she didn't want to hammer in.

Tom dropped a kiss to her arm, inhaling while gently disentangling himself and stood. "You're cold, get back in bed." Effectively refusing to discuss the subject further. Sasha clenched her eyes while that all too familiar wash of helplessness engulfed her, worked hard against the knot in her chest.

"You need to call him."

* * *

**Thursday, January 31** **st** **, 2019—Naval Brig/CCU, Naval Air Station Jacksonville**

Tom listened as the buzzy monotonous alarm wailed, signifying his accompanied entrance into the detention wing which housed their prisoners. Those captured at the safe house, and now Hector Martinez too. With the General's usefulness effectively exhausted, Tom was all too happy to have him transferred out of command, putting distance between him and the intense desire that whispered at the back of his mind. Told him to end Hector Martinez' miserable life. There'd been many a thought about it—determined it wouldn't take much to convince Pablo to take five—figured Sasha laid down the law with Green to keep an eye out, but Pablo didn't know his tricks and was still thoroughly intimidated. If he'd committed to, Tom could buy himself just enough time to kill the camera and crush Hector's windpipe again—to completion.

They approached a thick metal door, a grate to pass food and a small observation window its only penetrable features, and Tom stepped through once the guard opened it, keys jangling at his belt as he swung its weight. She was sitting with knees drawn to her chest on the cot, Steri-Strips holding her brow together, albeit jaggedly. Mindlessly, Tom noted it would leave a decent scar which seemed to satisfy him more than it should. Tom gestured with his head to the guard that he'd be fine on his own, the same steely gaze settling itself back upon Kelsi as she peered at him with deranged eyes.

"I already told them I won't talk. You can't make me." It was defiant.

Tom didn't even blink. He only had one question—the rest she could take to her grave for all he cared. Had spent countless hours painstakingly going over this in his mind, deducing that the most likely leak had to be her. With narrowed eyes and a cool stare, he disposed her. "I only want one thing."

Kelsi looked him up and down cautiously with those feverish eyes. He seemed disinterested, but there was a torrid intensity emanating from him which piqued her, and she bit. "What?"

He did blink then, slow and unyielding while he loomed towering and stoic. "How did you know?" The depraved curve of her lip causing his gut to fall in something akin to a g-force.

"The flowers—in her office. _'Happy Anniversary'._ "

Only his three decades spent controlling and suppressing his reactions stopped the way that statement hit from showing on his face. Instead, Tom merely inhaled slowly and unfolded his arms, cool and controlled as he knocked once sharply to signify the guard. Waited until he was firmly out of sight, pacing restlessly in an empty restroom before hunching over and scrubbing hands through his hair. There was that bile again. Nausea, dizzying in its intensity. He bent at the waist while he covered his face with his palms and willed his breathing to slow.

He'd almost killed her with fucking flowers.

* * *

**Saturday, February 2** **nd** **, 2019—Naval Hospital, Jacksonville, Florida**

Mike walked through the halls he knew as well as their home at this point, the same ones he'd been coming to for over a month now. Tucked under his left arm was a potted Hyacinth, powder blue—Andrea's favorite. Figured it might be good to brighten the place up, add to the various cards, bouquets, and mementos the crew had left in her long-term recovery room.

She was up when he walked in, propped against pillows and bed angled into a seated position. Greeted him with no more vigor than any other day and he tempered his disappointment, settling on smiling brightly at her instead.

"Morning, I bought you something," he held up the flower, heading over to place it on the small yellow-toned wooden table beside her.

"I'm sorry, Mike."

He almost dropped the pot but caught himself at the last second, raising his expression to look at hers. Those big round eyes he loved so much were sad and glassy. More life than he'd seen from them in a month and the overwhelming relief surged so steadily through his heart, that all he could do was quickly set it down and grasp her hand tightly in response.

Andrea squeezed it back with as much strength as she could muster, not much, her lips pursing and brows furrowing deeply. There was a crack in her cloud, a crack which allowed her to emote something other than brokenness. Mike immediately cupped her cheek with his free hand, unable to hide the swell of emotion from filling his eyes and beamed at her and that was when she knew. He was her reason. Her reason to try.

"Everything's going to work out," he told her. "You and me. We'll figure this out."

Andrea nodded, blinking back against the tears pouring down her cheeks, and welcomed his arms as he shifted her over to sit next to her on the bed.

"I missed you." His voice was gruff and pitchy when he struggled it out. "I missed you so much."

* * *

**Wednesday, February 6** **th** **, 2019—USSOUTHCOM, Mayport, Florida**

"Hey."

Sasha let herself in and held up a brown to-go bag from the canteen. It was only then that Tom realized how hungry he was, felt the pull in his stomach as it reacted to the sight of food. He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair while she approached. She'd done something different with her hair today, and it bounced and flowed beautifully with the smallest of movements. It sparked a sentimentality to permeate his overburdened thoughts, reminded him that there were still in fact simple joys to be had in life. Joys like his wife bringing him lunch at his desk.

"This is a nice distraction," he mused while she shrugged out of her blazer, draping it neatly on the back of an opposite chair before sitting.

Sasha smiled softly as his gaze swept her. "Me or the food?"

"Yes."

There was a playfulness in that blue as Tom took the bag, divesting its contents in the same particular fashion he always did. Napkins first, followed by food, then any condiments or utensils before smoothing and folding the bag horizontally in half and setting it in the same very precise line as his lunch. A process which still bemused Sasha that hadn't changed one bit in twenty years.

"You left early this morning," she began, cautious as those eyes peered at her while he took his first bite of the turkey sandwich. Double meat, extra mayo, no tomato, lettuce, a pinch of red onion, seasoning, and a dash of salt. "Figured you'd be hungry, you've been holed up all day." Playing it safe, benign, choosing instead to bask in this favorable mood over the sullen, withdrawn one that had plagued them since that night.

"Thank you," he mumbled mid-chew.

Her lips tugged up a little, and she gestured with her eyes to the reports spread open. "How are we looking?"

Tom finished his bite before answering, "Line is holding, though we'd be in a world of shit if you hadn't stolen those war plans," an admission punctuated with a foreboding tilt of his head.

Sasha's features pinched into an expression of pondering. After sifting through thousands of pages of intel, she had the same inclination. "I can't reconcile a guy that used to work at _Disneyland_ doing all this—I thought Martinez was behind it, but—" trailing off because there was no need to state the obvious.

Tom nodded in agreement, "It's too perfect," he paused to chew some more, "half the time I feel like I'm reading the tactical theory of a genius."

Sasha narrowed her eyes then, a spark of connection forming in her mind. "There has to be someone else, someone we're missing… Columbia barely even had a military after the outbreak, most of the troops are new, the Generals too…"

"Maybe we're not looking for a General. Maybe we're looking for a strategist—" Tom mumbled, feeling as if he were on the precipice of uncovering a thought hiding just beyond his horizon. Murky, something he knew somewhere deep in his subconscious yet, couldn't formulate the path to. Like a word, forgotten and stuck on the tip of his tongue.

Her lips drew down a fraction as she ran with that thought. "It's worth considering. I'll see what I can drum up—" already working on how to begin her search. Logic leading her to conclude creating a list of war strategists likely to sympathize with Tavo's perceived plight was as-good-a-place as any to start. Really shouldn't take long either, it's not like surviving strategists were abundant.

She'd been about to bring up the kids, but the light trilling of his desk phone killed that thought and she closed her mouth, dismissing the apologetic look shot her way while he picked up the phone deftly.

"This is CNO."

Watched as he ground his jaw a fraction while he listened.

"Yes, Sir." Tom set the receiver back in its holder. "Reiss," he elaborated with a sigh. "You have about five minutes before he comes in here," he grumbled. Working on devouring his sandwich with more efficiency and haste.

Sasha bounced her brows up quickly, "That's my cue," as she ran her hands down her thighs, smoothing the fabric of the black slacks she wore before standing. She paused after tugging on her Jacket, looking at him with genuine curiosity. "Did you say something to him? He's been very agreeable since the op."

Tom smirked as he chewed, and Sasha quirked her head, a little bemused. He took his time dabbing at his mouth with a napkin before leaning back fully. "No—but I think your driving won him over."

She studied him completely perplexed and untucked her hair from her nape while he continued to smile in a distinctly smug sort of manner. Obviously missing something, she shrugged it off. Happy instead that he was coming around from the absent depression he'd been in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Saturday, February 9** **th** **, 2019—Chandler Rental, Mayport, Florida**

Very few things had the ability to truly dumbfound Tom Chandler. Render him completely mute, and without thought or ability for reaction. Morbidly, he thought perhaps the only way he could ever be more shocked, would be if Darien showed up alive at their doorstep. She was no Darien, that much was sure—and though he'd never met, or even seen this woman before—there could be no mistaking her identity. No possible question whatsoever, because he was staring at the face of his wife in twenty or so years.

_Well fuck me sideways._

For a few very long seconds, Tom truly considered slamming the door. This could not come at a more disastrous time, but the idea died quickly under the knowledge that if she'd been this persistent, as to find out where they lived, she likely wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Further, if Sasha inherited her level of stubborn from anyone, Tom had the sneaking— _and sinking_ —suspicion he was looking at whom.

"Tom?" he heard from the hallway, concern evident in her tone, footsteps drawing closer, and he could only picture the car crash about to ensue. Stood there, waiting for it to unfold rooted to the spot.

_Dumbfounded._

Sasha's frown grew deep when she rounded the hall and saw Tom standing rigid in the doorway, right hand still gripping the handle. The feet of what appeared to be a woman were visible through the gap in his legs, couldn't tell who though, because his body was blocking their torso and face.

She strode purposefully to stand at his left side, "What's goi—" her mouth stayed open, but the words stopped. Couldn't even blink for the monumental mind-fuck she was currently experiencing.

"Hello, Aleksandra."

Tom felt a chill run down his spine. That voice still laced with a Russian accent. Those eyes, one hundred percent identical to his wife's save for the cold, hard, deadness behind them.

_Fuck._

Sasha felt the tremor starting steadily in the depths of her body, blood pressure dropping until she wondered if she were about to pass out from sheer shock alone. It would mark the first instance in her life, could count on one hand the number of times she'd ever fainted, the very word sounding delicate and feeble. Back then it had been blood loss or a head injury that caused it, understandable, and acceptable, but this? _No_ —more than anything, Sasha did not want to drop because her mother had shown up on her doorstep.

There was a distinct narrowing and blackening of her vision as if she'd arisen too quickly from a bed, a telltale buzzing in her ears that pulsed with every pump of her heart. With stark clarity, as Sasha stared, cold and unrelenting at the woman who'd broken her so irreparably, she found there was only one thing she could say. "Ty dolzhen byl ostat'sya mertvym, mama," before snatching the door out of Tom's grasp. Her use of force caused the adjacent paned windows to rattle in their frames, and whether the registering of her comment or the resounding nature of that slam, Tom was instantly ripped from his stupor. An all-encompassing dread engulfed him as he watched her tear a path through the hallway and up the stairs.

_Fuck._

Sasha's hands shook violently as she splashed ice cold water on her face, chasing away the light-headedness, trying to will sense back into her mind, completely dismayed that she was so affected— _still_. A light tap on the door and the sound of knuckles dragging against it—likely to test the door handle, she assumed—told her Tom was outside. Simultaneously, she wanted nothing more than to open it and start wailing for him to fix it like he did everything else, but the larger part wanted to act like this wasn't happening. Go back to five-minutes ago when their Saturday had been perfectly benign, leading to a far more productive outcome for all in her opinion.

"Sash."

"I'm fine." She stared into the mirror only to see her mother's eyes burning back at her. Found she couldn't stand to look, and with a silent curse, aggressively snatched at the hand towel to pat her face dry. She turned away from her treacherous reflection to lean against the vanity, attempting to comprehend, well, _anything_. How this was even possible.

" _Sasha,"_ Tom began softly, gently, "you just told your mother she should have died… you're not f—"

The lock turned; door ripped open to a picture of stark fury while she pointed a finger at him. "Are you serious?" she snapped. "You can't tell me I'm not fine when you won't even talk to me! You've barely said two words to me since that op. you won't sleep, you won't call Grantham, and you're telling me _I'm_ not fine? The only thing that isn't fine is _you_ , Tom—so don't _'Sasha'_ me, and te—"

Tom held up his hands to cut her off mid-tirade in a surrendering gesture, an attempt to placate this from spiraling wildly out of control. "Okay," he assured her, "it's okay—we'll talk."

Sasha scoffed indignant, "Just like that?" sarcastically. "I've only been asking you for a month and now _suddenly_ you'll talk."

She was right. Tom knew that. Knew it was hypocritical, but there was little other choice but to move forward with complete honesty. "Yeah, Sash—if it stops you from doing this, I will." It did little to dampen the flames.

" _This?"_ she prompted, raising her brows.

"Burying—"

 _"Oh,"_ came her sarcastic chuckle, "that's rich Thomas. Truly."

He didn't take the bait, knowing well by now the tricks of her trade. The only way to de-escalate fire was to add water, not more gasoline. A concept that had taken them quite a few tries over the years to figure out. Taking her face between his hands, Tom implored her, "I promise we'll talk—but we need to deal with this... not pretend like it didn't happen."

Seemingly on cue, the doorbell chimed again and her mother's voice came dulled, but discernable nonetheless.

_"Don't be a child, Aleksandra. Open the door."_

Sasha's nostrils flared, and she pushed past Tom out of his grasp. With a ferocity rarely seen, Sasha made a be-line out of their bedroom and downstairs, leaving him little option but to follow. With the door open again, Sasha addressed her mother in a frigid, commanding tone. "I don't know why you're here, I don't care, and I'm not interested in talking—so leave."

Tom stood at her side while he struggled to come up with a game plan rapid-fire to deal with this bombshell of a revelation. Ideas that we interrupted when he saw her mother's reaction—if Tom thought the physical similarities were unnerving, the mannerisms were even more so.

Completely un-perturbed, Sasha's mother merely tilted and then shook her head, made a _'tst'_ noise in the back of her throat. "You were always too emotional," she admonished with disappointment, "I see it hasn't changed—"

"Hey," Tom interjected, his voice coming in a raspy warning. He stepped forward until he stood in the doorjamb, peering down at her, noting that she was roughly two inches taller than Sasha. "I think you're a little confused about how this is gonna work." Her mother's brow quirked, and that icy gaze affixed itself to him, almost eviscerating with its scathing hollowness. Oddly, Tom was having a hard time remembering the last time anyone had been able to acutely unsettle him like that with just a look. It had been a while… probably since he'd looked Alison Shaw in the eye and found nothing but black there. Tom told himself it was because he knew the kind of damage this woman could do, but there was something else he couldn't put his finger on. Betraying nothing but steely composure, he continued, "She said she doesn't wanna talk—so you should probably go."

There was an almost rolling of eyes, "Fine," her mother replied. But instead of walking away, she pulled out her cell and began dialing.

Sasha clenched her jaw, "What are you doing?"

"There's a reporter, they've been aski—"

Sasha snatched the phone out of her hand. "Stop," she bit out, mouth clenched tight while she fought to remain in control. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk—now let me in, or you want to keep making a scene?"

* * *

At this point, Tom was quietly considering pinching himself to verify his reality. Sasha's mother, in their living room, making no attempt to hide her blatant pursual of their surroundings. Behavior which gave Tom the immediate urge to correct by way of removing the dozen or so photographs adorning the room; decoration that had only been added a week ago. Simply put, her mother was deeply unsettling. Strikingly beautiful still, even in her sixties. A little more square in the jaw, harsher angles, and more prominent cheekbones—kept in good shape, silvery-gray hair fastened into a neat, low Chignon. If he had to guess, she'd had work done prior—good work—subtle, yet enough to remain more youthful than nature intended. Her style was elegant, age-appropriate but not aging. Classy. Had the same ability to make simple pairings, in this case, a three-quarter length crew-neck, cashmere Tom thought, and basic well-tailored trousers seem elevated. She sat perfectly poised on their sofa. Legs crossed, hands clasped in-front over her knee—back straight as a rod—austere, and utterly devoid of soul.

It became apparent to Tom as he observed, waiting with low-grade anxiety for what would unfold, that Sasha's mother had been dead inside for a _very_ long time. Those normally positive attributes like elegance and beauty only adding vast juxtaposition to her stark frostiness. Whatever she was here for it was clear remorse wasn't a factor.

Sasha didn't know whether to sit or stand, but after a few moments of internal deliberation, opted for sitting in the adjacent armchair. Prompted thanks to the lightheaded-ness that prevailed. Tom remained standing behind her; arms folded across his chest. Her mother peered at him, as if expecting him to leave, or maybe for her to tell him to—Sasha wasn't quite sure, but it wasn't a pleasant expression.

Returning those caustic eyes toward her daughter, she drawled sarcastically, "Ya vizhu, ty nashel telokhranitelya." _You've found a bodyguard._

"Ty znayesh' kto ya," Tom fired back. _You know who I am._

The brow moved again, this time with a modicum of interest. "He speaks Russian."

"Why are you here?" Came Sasha's blunt response, giving no energy toward the games.

With a bored look, it seemed her mother accepted that she wouldn't control this visit entirely, and she seemed to settle for moving to the point. "Because I want to know how they got you."

Sasha couldn't help the squint of confusion. The expression that silently speculated if her mother was a paranoid conspiracy theorist. "Who?"

Her mother tilted her head again, taking a long enough moment to scrutinize that Sasha was about to ask again. "You don't know?"

Unable to stop the frustration, Sasha rolled her eyes. Shook her head while her mouth hung open a fraction, "I don't have time for this—"

Her mother appeared to be genuinely perplexed. "They didn't recruit you... you work only for America?"

Sasha felt—or sensed, rather—the massive shift behind her. Tom let out a long breath that was more of a groan as it clicked into place. Arms unfolding to brace against the back of Sasha's chair, he gripped the wicker hard enough to make it creak.

"You're a plant," he rasped, "you're goddamn KGB."

_Oh, the irony._

Sasha waited with bated breath for the reaction—one that barely came, no more than a steady blink and an almost imperceptible nod, and when it came it was as if the wind had been knocked from her lungs. In a breathy way, Sasha clarified, completely stunned, "The whole time?"

"I was sent because your father had clients of— _particular interest_ ," she responded cautiously, clearly delineating the boundaries on how much information she would divulge.

There was that buzzing again, blackening of vision. It fit. It made sense. She'd been born in the heart of the cold war. Had studied the USSR's foreign tactics _thoroughly_ as part of her thesis. Mouth open, as if wanting to speak, Sasha shook her head slowly. "So none of it was real—"

"It was a cover. Surely you understand given your choice of profession—ironic, no?"

Sasha's eyes fluttered in shock and her brows rose. " _No,_ actually. I can't—"

"This," her mother continued undeterred, sweeping her hand in a vague gesture toward the room, those pictures, to Tom, "this is real." It didn't sound like much of a question.

"Why wouldn't it be," Sasha responded clipped, "I am _nothing_ like you."

A hint of morbid amusement seemed to pass across her mother's features. "Don't be so sure. You were willing to die for your war and throw this away—where I'm from that is dedication to your country. To the mission. I did my job, and I did it well," she countered. Her gaze flickered up to Tom quickly, a small shifting of eyes that allowed her to see the way his chin tucked in reaction. How the muscle in his jaw bulged while he clenched. A tell, in combination with his demeanor which confirmed the assessment that what they had, was not a fabrication.

A feeling of nausea washed over Sasha and she ground her teeth. Feeling itchy and uncomfortable, the magnitude of coincidences that had to occur seeming impossible. Reeling in the wake of discovering she'd somehow effectively chosen the same path as her mother. Starting to question if she'd been conditioned into it when she was a child against her knowledge—memories fuzzy at this point.

"Did he know?" Sasha finally prompted after a time. There was a look that she couldn't quite interpret before her mother answered.

"No. He thought I was having an affair—"

"With Richard—" Sasha interjected, scoffing softly because everything was starting to make sense. Vague recollections shifting with this new perspective, like pieces in a kaleidoscope—the image becoming clearer and clearer with every passing focus. "He was your handler." It wasn't a question, more of a statement, but her mother responded nonetheless.

"Yes."

"And the night he died?"

"I had to report in."

Sasha leaned back, folding her arms while she processed. Felt Tom's fingers twitch when her shoulder touched them. Willing herself to stay still and not jump as if electrocuted, because the way his thumb was now stroking in a small gesture of comfort threatened sentimentality she couldn't afford. Not when she wanted to remain detached. "He was a good man, and you _never_ cared," Sasha ground out, "and me? Did you think you could just leave me at the church, and I wouldn't be a problem for you anymore?"

Her mother gave little external reaction, save for a slight puckering of her lips. "We were supposed to leave. He had a plan to get us out—"

"Richard?" Sasha's tone was indignant, blinking against the fiery hurt that blossomed in her chest. "So you _are_ capable of loving someone… just not me?"

Sasha observed as her mother's jaw clenched. "I gave _everything_ to my country—you have no idea the sacrifice involved. You cannot imagine what they do—"

"You're my mother!" Sasha wasn't able to stop herself, hoping against reality that she might get something out of this conversation other than the same empty rejection she'd always received. Foolish, in hindsight.

"That's supposed to matter to me?"

Tom felt a glacial chill settle in his bones, something akin to hatred flaring steadily throughout his system, and his hand moved its grip from the back of the chair to Sasha's shoulder instead. A thumb, not enough contact for him to communicate his support.

Sasha's expression twisted at those words, an involuntary flinch. "I was _twelve_ —you wouldn't even let me keep a picture." Hating the way her voice became tight and low, hated how deeply it cut. Stung. Like salt in a wound.

Her mother responded quick and sharp. "Saška, I made you _strong_ —you would have wallowed. His drinking was his own problem, not mine." Definitive, devoid of sympathy, empathy, or feeling—almost like she was proud.

_Floored._

It burned. Made her insides crawl. Her jaw ticked, but she said nothing. Effectively rendered mute. It's not that she didn't know her mother's propensity for cruelty, but something deep in her soul had wondered— _hoped_ —that she wasn't really this devoid. _Sociopathic_. Sasha's heart, if anything, was a stubborn creature that refused to let go of certain notions—the minuscule hope that she'd been wrong about what happened being one. Sasha could see it now, clear as day. Her mother didn't love her because she was never wanted. She was the product of a mission—nothing more. In some ways, that concept was more difficult to swallow than simply not knowing at all.

Tom was completely and utterly stunned. He got it now. Could see _exactly_ how Sasha came to be. Where she came up with the— _at times_ —insane tenacity against letting anyone in. It wasn't that she wouldn't trust, or didn't want to, it's that she couldn't _._ Where before he'd wondered if that trait was a stubborn choice, he felt he truly understood, for the first time in his life exactly how she got to this point.

Her body felt disconnected as if she were watching from the corner of the room, rather than living in it. Calmly, Sasha smoothed her hands over her jeans as she stood, Tom's hand falling away from her shoulder and trailing down her back.

"I don't even know your real name, do I?"

Her mother mirrored the gesture, also standing—chin held high, with her dignity seemingly intact, and Sasha breathed out a scoff. Refusing to process how that made her feel. To know that her mother wasn't affected _at all_ by their past or this interaction.

 _Alone._ She was alone in this—like she always had been.

"No. You don't," she confirmed.

Sasha rose her brows and tipped her head a fraction in acknowledgment while running her tongue across her teeth. Folded her arms. "I think we're done here—you got what you came for."

They regarded each other for a moment, Sasha working incredibly hard against the vice in her throat, staying externally composed through sheer force of will. Her mother cast her gaze down and then up again as if inspecting her before she agreed. "Yes."

Tom moved away and down the hall, toward the door which he now held open. Sasha watched, fighting against the urge to ask why, as her mother directed attention toward him. She appeared in deep thought, not yet moving to leave, and stood instead under the full heat of his smoldering gaze. His unspoken disapproval, and dare she say hatred quite clear. Sasha began turning her head to observe the intense silent exchange, but her mother chose that moment to break contact.

With a final look at her daughter, she offered the only wisdom she'd gained. "You should get out while you can, Aleksandra—before you lose him." There was something profoundly honest in her mother's tone, something which gave Sasha pause. Brow furrowed slightly; she finally met her mother's eyes. "If it's real—that's what you should fight for, not the mission," came her final statement.

Sasha's expression narrowed, lips parting slightly as she watched her mother— _this woman_ , whom she'd never really known—leave as abruptly as she'd arrived. That tremor seeming to intensity tenfold as soon as Tom closed their door. Its soft click loud as a gunshot in her mind.

Tom's hand lingered on the golden handle, the metal cool and sturdy under his palm. Heart falling further still when he took in her expression.

"Baby—"

She swallowed and did something with her features, which let him know she wasn't about to engage. "I don't have anything to say." It was quiet—empty. Tom dropped his hand, letting it hang loose at his side while he waited for the next thing he suspected would come. "I'm gonna go in—I have some stuff on Montano I wanna get finished, I think he's your guy—"

" _Sasha_ —"

"Tom," her head shook a fraction, small and jerky. Shoulders coming up in a half-shrug, her mouth opened, hesitating while she considered her words. Deciding instead that her first statement was enough. "I don't have anything to say."

He was close now, a realization that disconcerted because Sasha wasn't sure she'd even registered him move. Troubled blue pursued her, disbelieving and gentle. "Stay," he implored, somewhere just above a whisper.

Internally, her heart clenched. Wishing there was a way to put words to why she couldn't do what he asked. Not right now. "I can't." There was regret, an apology as much as a warning in her tone. Cautious, as she peered up at him, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. Somehow, she wished he'd get angry. It would be easier to deal with than the aching look he was giving her. The sinking knowledge that she was doing what she'd always done… failing to make better choices, being a hypocrite, running, dawning on her. Even as she did it. As she committed to avoiding. Burying. Doing what Sasha does best.

_Why._

She didn't know why.

"I'll call you," she said, unfolding her arms and moving.

"Sash," he appealed. Just before she disappeared into the kitchen, intent on retrieving her keys. She paused, taking a moment to collect herself before turning back to him, silently awaiting his next words. "It's the same dream. Every time…" Immediately, her fixation on leaving faltered. She turned more fully, listening intently for the insight she'd wanted for a month.

"The Helo lands—you're dead. I sit with your body for hours, staring at a hole in your head… your skin's the wrong color, your lips are gray. Your hands are stiff—cold—and no matter what I do, I can't wake up until I put a gun in my mouth and pull the trigger." He clenched his hands, knuckles stretching the skin until it turned white, maintaining constrained eye contact with her. Keeping the bulk of his distress shielded from view, but he felt it. Just as surely as he did every time he closed his eyes.

Sasha didn't know what to say in response. Her eyes became round and profoundly sad. Something about him keeping his word akin to a slap in the face. One that she'd sorely needed. Wetting her lip, she moved away from the kitchen, away from the flight response, and into the fight instead. Wordlessly, and with his eyes tracking her movements until she was stood toe to toe, Sasha wrapped her arms around him. Savoring the solace which engulfed her when he responded in kind. Her face was buried in the fabric of his shirt, the smell of his soap, and him filling her senses. Felt him press a kiss against her hair. Very aware that he could probably feel her shaking.

Quietly, Tom whispered against her ear, "You're not alone anymore, Sash. Remember that."

She clenched her eyes shut.

_Her mother was alive._


End file.
